Thursday's Child
by Nonsuch
Summary: Everything’s gone wrong. I guess a part of the blame probably rests with me, but that doesn’t mean it’s my fault; it isn’t that at all. Please, you’ve got to believe me. You have to hear me out. **NEW CHAPTER**
1. Innocence and Experience

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the William Blake poem I have quoted from, just as I do not own anything he has written. **

**Tragic, isn't it?**

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Chapter One: Innocence and Experience

_O Rose, thou art sick._

_The invisible worm,_

_That flies in the night_

_In the howling storm:_

_Has found out thy bed_

_Of crimson joy:_

_And his dark secret love_

_Does thy life destroy._

William Blake. The Sick Rose

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I've done it, I've escaped. Well, I have bribed my out of my room with pearls and retreated to the library, but that feels like a triumph to me. I refuse to think of it in any other way, so don't think less of me for resorting to coercion. It will not be worth your time. I am supposed to be dying prettily in my room right now, wilting slowly like an exotic flower that has been kept out of the sun. But I refuse to lie limply in my bed - saying nothing, doing nothing - and become the human embodiment of such an over exploited simile. I may be many things, but I am adamant I am not and never will be a pot-plant.

I hate being thought of as of a flesh-and-blood flower; it seems a ridiculous conceit, a very silly way to consider life. Human beings are not flowers, despite what the famed poets claim. I am glad life does not conform to poetic delusions, it is strange enough as it is.

I love it here in the library. This place is so big, so peaceful. There are no Goblin Kings here to snarl at me or order me about. There is no one here to confuse and disorientate me. There are no unpredictable moods, no confrontations. I'm free of all that; I'm safe in the company of my books and my pen. I like writing; it's therapeutic. It helps me unburden myself. It helps me calm down.

I had better introduce myself. My name is Sarah Katherine Williams; you will not have heard of me. When I was human I was a complete unknown. You see, I never had the chance to become the universally-adored actress I wanted to be. I was a total nonentity, I don't know why I am thought to be so special now; he acts like I'm sacred somehow. I'm surprised he has not created a religion and established me as its head deity. Then again, saints are never canonized when they are alive. Maybe he is waiting for the day I stop breathing.

He – that is to say The Goblin King - is a mass of contradictions. When he is not worshipping me with intense stares and offerings he is abusing me and masquerading as my lover. Sometimes he seems to exist to assert his power over me; he uses the Sarah he has made me into to remind himself of his own magnificence. Other times he endeavours to make me vain, plying me with extravagant gowns and mirrors that I always turn my head away from.

He wants my fear, that is certain. I am sure he would like me to spend my whole existence quaking in his presence, instead I irritate him by keeping my body as still as a rock. I am scared frequently here but I do not allow the fear to show anymore. Fear is full of good associations for the Goblin King. He considers it to be virtually synonymous with such wonderful qualities as deference and respect.

Interestingly for an arrogant man, he is unhealthily obsessed with me. His devotion has become more intense since the onset of my illness. Since I have been confined to my bed it has been hard to get rid of him. His presence only makes me feel worse, sometimes even physically ill. I loathe the looks he gives me, the ways he touches me, to be specific the way he strokes my cheeks with his cold, gloved hand.

I am sure he likes my illness in a way; it accentuates his authority over me. Not that you could guess that from his behaviour; he is perpetually anxious and affects the persona of an attentive lover. He has always acted, but this act has got to be the worst he has ever performed. He has never seemed more pathetic than he has recently.

I get the impression I am destroying him. Some people would say I have changed him, but I am of the opinion that the destruction of the old persona is necessary if a person is to change in a meaningful way. Does that make sense? I'm not sure if it does now; whenever I think I know something I immediately start to doubt it. I don't know anything anymore. I don't know what I am; I don't even know what I am fighting. I don't like being like this: it scares me. I'm really, really scared, and there is no one here to help me.

I have no real idea why I'm here, although I have been here for months. Like I mentioned earlier, he is contradictory. Sometimes I think he wants a whore, other times a victim, and still other times an idol. Maybe he wants me to be all of those things. That wouldn't surprise me; he is notoriously demanding. Long ago, I thought he would simply want to kill me and be done with me once and for all. Oh, what I would give for the return of those simple, innocent days! Oh, if only he had put his hands around my throat and squeezed until I was still!

Throttling me would have spared everyone a great deal of trouble.

He has given me a room that I like, although I had trouble getting it. I still have trouble getting time alone in it, but that is another story for another time.

Do not allow me to give the impression I am totally subservient to him. I go through stages almost as frequently as he does: sometimes I strong; sometimes I am weak. That is how things are. When I am 'good' my requests are heeded. When I defy him, everything is decided for me. I am never sure what to do or how to act, I love being indulged but loathe being passive, so I have to choose whether my love of luxury will override my hatred of submission. I frequently re-consider my decision; boredom would probably make me feel suicidal if I didn't.

I always used to have my meals with him; there was no such thing as choice when it came to eating. That has changed now on account of my illness, mainly because I have no appetite. Eating is humiliating now because I am fed with a spoon; it makes me feel like a baby. I hate this wretched sickness. I wish it would hurry up and make me die. I only want to put this existence behind me so I can move on to something better.

I'm sure I am being irrational about death. I probably won't die even though I feel like I will. I've felt close to death so many times that the feeling is easy to identify. This is going to sound strange, but I'm reminded of the boy who cried wolf. My mind has tried to convince me I'm going to die so many times I can no longer take it seriously. I'm starting to think I'm doomed to endless life. I shouldn't think about that, though; it only makes me feel depressed and what I have written already is depressing enough as it is.

He keeps a miniature portrait of me in an amulet that he sometimes wears around his neck. I only found that out recently when I sneaked a look at his desk. I consider this discovery to be extremely interesting. I never imagined a monster like him could be so sentimental. I have imagined many other things about him, it is true, but not that, not sentimentality. It is usually hidden away, probably because it would undermine the tyrannical image of the Goblin King he has lovingly implanted in the minds of his subjects.

The portrait of me is a poor likeness. I look very vapid and bland; I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be a slightly altered image of a completely different girl. Though to be fair to the artist, the likeness is probably an accurate representation of what my face looked like when I was endeavouring to be obedient and sweet.

Do not allow this detail to give you the impression that the Goblin King is an overtly sentimental man who prances about in fields of wild flowers as if he were the protagonist of a piece of pastoral poetry. If the Goblin King saw a man doing that he would probably be annoyed and have him castrated. He has an ugly temper, I know even though I have only witnessed his true capacity for anger a few times. You see, every one of those times has been terrifying.

There is something childish about him when he is angry under normal circumstances, but the childishness is occasionally overwhelmed by something else. When he stops being childish – when he falls silent - it is time to worry.

He is a poor ruler. If the Goblins were not completely backward he would have been overthrown long before he had the chance to encounter me. Whenever someone attempts to confront him he descends into a rage, shouting at them until they are silent and no longer pose a threat to his way of thinking. Only the important people who irritate him are allowed to retreat, of course. The individuals he is responsible for simply get thrown into the nearest Oubliette.

I have seen terrible things happen here. The Goblins I will tentatively refer to as his ministers are treated to the worst of his anger. The Minister for the General Well-Being, Excellence, Functioning, Efficiency, and Superlativeness of Everything is treated to barrages of complaints and mockery every time he attempts to approach the Goblin King. I feel very sorry for him. I get the impression he is more intelligent than most of his species and would genuinely like to help his King make things better. The tragedy is that his King does not care about the welfare of his Kingdom.

However, he does care about me. He tells me I should be in bed because I am ill. He offers no further justification and I am sure he does not have any. I was fine walking here and I still feel fine now. My theory is that haunting my room is simply his latest fixation. Staying with me probably delays the onset of the thing he fears most; boredom. He fusses and sits besides me for hours at a time, splitting his attention between me and the gang of Doctors who attend me. He reminds me of an unusually persistent spirit; he sticks around no matter how forcefully you tell him to go away.

He is almost totally oblivious to my feelings about him. Nothing I say makes him react to the fact I loathe him.

I hate my doctors. I could swear they are all members of the Underground's version of the Mafia. They are all slick, oily hair and low conspiring voices. I cannot understand what they are saying because they speak a foreign language. I hate that almost as much as I hate them. They do not even attempt to talk to me. I don't know if it is because they cannot speak my language, if he has told them not to, or if they simply choose to ignore me. The only time they have anything to do with me is when they check my pulse.

The only thing I know for sure about them is that they think I am going to die. That is, judging by the mildly annoyed and/or worried glances they periodically throw at me. He shouts them down every time they try to tell him something, and he only ever shouts at people when they are telling him what he does not want to hear. I am pretty sure he does not want me to die, he has saved me from death too many times for that to be true.

I wish I had paid more attention in H.E (1). Maybe if I had I would know what this illness is. I've lost a lot of weight and my skin is pale, I look like I've been made-up for a Chaplin film. If anyone were to draw a finger across my face and realize it isn't powdered, they'd think I've had all the blood drained out of me; I look unnatural. I'm cold as well, though I'm always cold so that isn't really worrying. Recently, my eyes have become red and swollen. They sting when they're exposed to bright light, so the candle stays on the other side of the table. No one else knows this, but I've been coughing up blood. I think that's bad, and I don't think about it much.

Then again, my vision's getting better as I write and I'm not coughing anymore. I've improved a lot.

I remember reading about a wasting disease called consumption in Jane Eyre at school. That might be what I have; it makes sense, as I do feel like my illness is in the process of digesting me. I was given a mirror after demanding one about fifty times a day; I wanted to see what illness had done to me but everyone around me seemed strangely reluctant to indulge me. I realized why they had been so hesitant when I saw my reflection. My face looked like a skull that had been covered with a thin, translucent layer of plastic. It scared me and I hid my face in my pillow and asked to be left alone.

I am supposed to be convalescing from my illness right now, which has been very dull because I am not supposed to move. However whether or not I'm convalescing at all is questionable; my doctors seem to be under the impression I am not. This means there are no daring escape attempts now, no getting lost in the castle's convoluted passages on purpose like I used to. I have been feeling so tired lately. I am nearly always too sleepy to listen when he reads to me from books.

My decision to leave my room must sound stupid to an outsider. Let me try and explain my logic. My room is as dark and gloomy because the curtains are always drawn, it is always kept hot and the air is perpetually stale. I could swear being in there is aggravating my illness. I am always lonely there; somehow having other people around me constantly, worrying over me, fussing, makes me feel lonelier than I feel when I am on my own. That doesn't make any sense, I know, but it's true.

He does not know where I am now, thank God. As I write this he is probably shouting at the poor, brainless Goblin whose duty it is to guard my door. He's probably rattling it to get it to tell him the truth, holding it with disdain and trying not to make contact with its flaky skin. My pearl necklace will probably slip out of its pocket soon and reveal how I managed to get away.

Is that a raised voice I can hear in the distance? I hope it is not, but I suspect otherwise.

I can tell you exactly what the Goblin King will do if he finds me. First of all, he will glare darkly at my hand as it writes without letting me know he is watching me. Then, without forewarning, he will say my name dangerously. Once he has broken the silence, he will rant about my selfishness, attacking me for devoting my time to something as petty and pointless as writing. He would rather I cling to him, saying and doing nothing.

I can almost here his voice as I write about it. I am imagining the careful control that is always detectable in his tone, the impatience that lies on the fringe of his words. He is ordering me back to the 'safety' of my bed. If I dare to ignore him and continue writing as I write now, he will force me to look at him so he can scare me into submission. He will order me verbally at first and his phrasing will make it seem like I have a choice. He is horrible, a monster, a beast. I can hardly bear him. The sight of him makes me want to shudder.

He hates it when I display my revulsion. He will punish me; he will snatch my arm and force me backwards until my body is pressed against a cold, stone wall. He will then do one of two things to restrain me: he will drop my arm and either put his hands on my shoulders or grab hold of my wrists. He will then watch for some time, studying me, testing how long I can face him for. He does not inflict physical pain on me; indeed the opposite is true, for he handles me with great tenderness. Instead of using outright violence, he uses small amounts of pressure when he wants to be threatening. He will pass a finger over my pulse and press when he detects a vein, or he will use too much pressure when passing a finger across my cheek. His methods tend to have the desired effect; he can always make me shudder.

When he is being frightening there is a certain coldness about him; he becomes a model of self-discipline and limitation. He only becomes unpredictable when facing strange and unfamiliar situations. Being faced with terror stricken people is something he experiences frequently, and he knows exactly how to deal with it. There are other scenarios he does not know as well; for example, pure, bull headed defiance throws him off balance every time. Watching him handle that (and the other situation he does not know well) can be intriguing or terrifying; it depends.

He has only behaved in a completely unforgivable way once, to date. It was an evil thing for him to do, so very evil that thinking about it makes me mildly grateful for the restraint he employs now.

Even when he was being evil he did not harm me in a lasting way. There are no bruises or scars on my body. He's a violent man, but is usually gentle when it comes to me.

I have always thought it is strange that I am treated so delicately. Everyone apart from me is expendable, they are kicked, abused and tormented and he doesn't feel as much as a twinge of guilt. Watching him and knowing I am powerless to stop him makes me feel wretched. I want to say something but know nothing I can say will change his mind. He is convinced that everything he does is right, I could swear he convinced he's infallible.

I have to stop dwelling on him. It is making me upset and undermines my purpose in coming here. I have read many books in this place; maybe I should try and write my own. Maybe I should write down some happy memories instead.

I think I would like that, especially if I can write about the early years of my life. There are many happy memories and it would be healthier for me to dwell on them.

I was born in the July of 1970, which makes me nineteen. My, how ancient I am! Apparently I screamed a lot when I was born, not that I can remember.

My Dad told me I spent a lot of my time with my grandparents, his parents, when I was very young because he was working and Mom was acting. When I asked my Grandma about what I was like when I was little, she told me I was very quiet and liked to be on my own. She told me I would seek out small, quiet corners and sit in them for hours, playing with a doll or a teddy bear, muttering to it as if taking part in a very private conversation.

My first conscious memory features my mother. My mother loved acting regardless of whether or not she was onstage, and in my first memory of her she is clothed in a gauzy yellow dress that looked like it had been stolen from the wardrobe department of a costume drama. We were both in the park close to home, alone and together. I put my little dark head on her lap and gazed up at her adoringly as if there was no one else in the world. Looking down at my devotion, mother laughed prettily and started stroking my hair with her lazy, elegant fingers. Then she recited this rhyme to me, singing it because she had a beautiful soprano voice and loved to show it off:

_Monday's child is fair of face,_

_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_

_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_

_Thursday's child has far to go,_

_Fridays' child is loving and giving,_

_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_

_But the child born on the Sabbath day_

_Is bonny and blythe and good, and gay._

I can even remember the conversation we had afterwards.

"What day was I born on Mommy?"

"A Thursday, darling."

"Oh no." My small face crumpled in dismay. "But why couldn't I have been born on Monday? I wanna be pretty!"

"Don't fret, dear. Thursday is a good day to be born on. You have far to go," her hand moved, and she picked up a piece of my hair, fingering it idly as she continued "That means you will have lots and lots of adventures."

That settled me, and I asked another question "What day were you born on?"

Mother's brow contorted slightly as she concentrated. "I think it might have been a Wednesday."

I scrunched my face up, concentrating and remembering the relevant line of the rhyme and singing it in my obnoxiously loud voice "Wednesday's child is full of woe. What does woe mean?"

She looked slightly uncomfortable, squirming slightly. Eventually, she replied "It means sadness."

I was horror stricken. "But that can't be right! You're not sad! You're happy!"

She soothed me hastily, "Calm down, sweetie. It's only an old rhyme; it doesn't mean anything." I was not convinced and she sighed in exasperation. "It is only superstition. Something my grandmother sung to me when I was small. Now," she smiled, treating me to a wonderful view of her gleaming white teeth "How would you like some ice cream?"

I nodded gleefully and rolled off her, picking myself off the ground and running towards the ice cream stand. I glanced back and saw that mother had picked up her skirts and started chasing me. She laughed loudly; it was the laugh of an excitable little girl.

She left my father for a handsome actor called Jeremy when I was four. I don't have many other childhood memories of her; the only other significant one is brief and undefined.

We were both in the park again. It was another sunny day and mother was reading to me from the script of a play called Labyrinth. The story went as follows; a beautiful, widowed princess had to fight her way through a vast, complicated Labyrinth to save her child from the Goblin King, who had kidnapped her baby so he could use it to force the princess to marry him. He was madly in love with her, you see. I found the character revolting when I was little (he was evil, he had to be because the stage direction that preceded his arrival said; 'ENTER THE KING OF THE GOBLINS, LAUGHING WICKEDLY'). My feelings changed when I hit adolescence. I thought like this; who cares that he was evil? He loved her. He loved her with all his heart. Sometimes, I would lie down and gaze hazily at the canopy of my bed, imagining what my life would be like if a man came to adore me to the same degree as the poor, misunderstood villain had adored the courageous, tragically beautiful princess of my play.

But most aspects of my relationship with the play never changed. I adored it for it was romantic and exciting; the good characters were funny and made me laugh. Mom made every line of it tangible, adopting different voices and inhabiting every role as if she had been born to perform it. Listening to her reinforced my conviction that she was the best actress in the world.

I felt an affinity with my mother that I have not felt since she left. I miss her.

When I was older I would prance around on the same grass I had lazed on with my mother, acting out the play she had read to me when I was four. I tried to emulate her and strove to give the characters as much personality as she had. There was always something lacking in my performances, but they were enough to sustain me.

I loved inhabiting the world of Labyrinth; being there thrilled me beyond measure; and the friends I found there were far nicer than those I had at school. The friends I had at school hardly counted; all of them proved to be completely incapable of meeting my standards. Many wanted to be my friend because I was a pretty little girl and some of the more intelligent children were drawn to me because they had heard about my moderately famous mother. Their reasons for wanting to be friend meant nothing to me. All that mattered was their inadequacy.

My father remarried eight years after my mother left him. His chosen wife was a woman called Irene who wore too much make up and tried too hard to make me like her. I did not forgive my father then, but I forgive him now. I wish I could tell him that, he'd like to know.

I think about my family constantly in spite of him. I know he would prefer it if I forget them and moved on (I quote: 'they are the past; I am the future'), but I can't do that. My memories of them are the last link I have to the past and I am not going to give them up. No amount of coercion or drugged drinks will persuade me to abandon my memories.

Thirteen-year-olds aren't generally known for tact and I was no exception. I did nothing to disguise my feelings when my father and his peroxide-blonde wife told me I would soon have a little brother or sister. They held each other's hands tightly and they both looked terrified as they waited for my reaction.

I surprised them by displaying total indifference. "Are you trying to tell me Irene's pregnant?"

"Yes, honey. In a few months you will have a baby brother or sister."

I shook my head slowly and started moving away from them. "No. Whatever it is, it won't be my brother or sister; it will just be a baby. A horrible, screaming baby!"

I ran out, stormed up the stairs to my room and slammed the door behind me. They left me alone to cry.

Now I think about it, my early life was not ideal. It was full of mistakes, even before I had anything to do with the Goblin King. My exquisitely beautiful mother abandoned me and my short-sighted father married a woman I hated. I was a selfish brat who shifted the blame for my misery onto my innocent brother. When I was very young I was alienated by the selfish behavior of the adults around me; when I grew older I became exactly like those inward-looking people: selfish and vain. It's interesting; I became the kind of person I hated, yet I was oblivious to my own condition. I never considered myself selfish, only betrayed. As far as I was concerned, everything I did was justifiable.

Isn't that all ironic?

When my brother, Toby, was a baby, I behaved wickedly. I refused to hold him, refused to let him have any of my old, babyish toys when Irene told me to give (she said "share," but I knew exactly what she meant) some to him and refused to baby-sit him until I was threatened with the prospect of chores. I didn't let anyone at school know I had a brother; my sibling only became known to my peers when I was sighted in town with my Dad, Irene, and a baby buggy.

Toby was five when last I saw him. It was a beautiful day. I could barely see because the sun was so bright. I took him to the swings in the park and pushed him high into the air, listening to his happy cries. When Toby got bored of that I stopped the swing and we both sat down on the grass, crushing it beneath us as we made daisy chains. I remember speaking to him; our conversation rattled on endlessly. We must have both sounded childish to outsiders but an unparalleled understanding existed between us during that conversation. Speaking to him made everything clear; it made the decisions I had to make easier and convinced me of what was right.

Thinking about how lovable he was fills me with shame because I cannot think about what a wonderful little boy he was without remembering how badly I treated him when he was a baby. I doubt I will ever stop feeling guilty. I will always be aware of my capacity for evil and how it endears me to Jareth.

Or, as I should say, His Exalted Highness Jareth, Goblin King, Lord of the Outer reaches, the Goblin realm, Overseer of the Dukedom of the Bogland Marsh etc., etc. That version of his name does not include his peripheral titles or middle names. One of the Goblins capable of speech told me he has dozens of them.

I find it embarrassing that I have learned his names by heart. Being able to write it all down makes me feel like a parrot that can hold a pen. I haven't been told yet why I have to know his full name, but I have theories.

Before I go on, I would like to say a few things about Irene. Even if I was whipped raw with leather strips, I would refuse to say I like her. I was able to tolerate her towards the end, but the smiles I gave her were always labored. I went through a stage of trying to be co-operative, I tried hard to smile and give the impression of fondness. I tried to unearth common interests that would give us something to talk about, sampling her favorite television shows and listening to the music she recommended to me. However, seeing her blanched, made up face was always enough to make me forget my good intentions. She is one of the few aspects of my old life I can confidently say I don't miss.

I miss so many things, not just people. I miss my cluttered, badly organized bookshelf. I miss my big, old dog, Merlin, and how I would lead him into the hall when he was wet just to hear Irene scream at me as his long, shaggy coat dripped all over the carpet. I miss my friends. To be very petty, I miss strawberry milkshakes and hot showers. I would give anything to emerge from a mist filled shower to find a white, fluffy towel waiting for me on a radiator.

I would love to go back and do all the things I always dreamed of doing. I would have given anything to go on Broadway. When I was younger I dreamed of being picked out by a spotlight on a stage and curtseying as my audience rose to its feet. They would all clap deafeningly, every one of them blinded by adoration.

Going abroad would have been fun. England always seemed interesting; it has a lot of history, I've heard it's really quaint and traditional. They have a Queen instead of a President and drink lots and lots of tea, there are lots of other differences as well but none come to mind right now. Thinking about it though, I would have probably preferred to go to Italy. The Italians have great food and even better weather. England falls short in that respect, it is cold and wet the whole year round and I hate the rain. So, it would have to be Italy.

None of those dreams are going to happen now, and no one here understands why that makes me so unhappy. They do not see any pleasure in messy rooms and sugary drinks. Everyone here sees me as the Goblin King's little human pet, something to be kept on a leash and paraded in front of guests like a pedigree dog. Still, I should not complain. Worse things could be thought of me. I am sure many like to think of me as his sickly little slut, but they are wrong, they have it all wrong. That will never happen; I will never let myself be that. Never, never, never!!!

There is no one here; there is no one to talk to, no one to scream at. There is no one to cry to.

I'm all alone.

I am getting upset; I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Whoever you are reading this, you must think I am hysterical, you must think my confinement is making me go mad, insane, wrong-headed, unbalanced, bizarre. Oh God! Why have I stopped making sense? I didn't need all of those words, I went on and on and on and on and on…

Oh dear, I feel dizzy again, it's worse than before. My eyes are going funny, the flame of the candle seems larger than what it did earlier and everything looks slightly beige, like a Victorian photograph. Things are swinging in and out of focus madly, like a lamp attached to the roof of a ship that's being tossed around a stormy sea. The words I have written are blurring as I stare at them. I can continue, though. I am not quite ready to stop.

Maybe I should not have come down here. Maybe he was right to demand that I stay in my room.

If the order had come from someone else, maybe I would have listened to it.

I know what my symptoms mean: the fever is coming back. My forehead is burning, as if I had been out in the sun too long, even though I haven't come into contact with natural light in days. A fever is a horrible thing; it swings from one extreme to the other without bothering to warn you. One moment I feel so hot I am convinced I am about to self-combust, the next so cold I have to find my pulse to reassure myself I am still alive. The changes occur so quickly, they scare me.

I could have sworn I was fine before, but the more I write the more the fever comes. It is making me feel wretched: my face is wet with sweat; my hair feels messy and unclean; my eyes feel so heavy, it's amazing my face can bear the weight of them.

Oh God, I wish I could remember more of those H.E lessons; I feel so stupid. All I know is that my body is trying to fight the fever, this terrible pain.

I have no idea if my body is winning, that is the worst thing of all: uncertainty. I hate that word, it's horrible. I wish I had never written it down.

I don't really want to admit this much, but I'm scared. Will coming here be what kills me? Will the strain I have put upon my body make it give up? I hope not; if I have to die to defy him I would rather be obedient and survive. I don't want to die, not really; no one does when it comes to it for real. Anyone who says differently is a liar, a filthy liar.

I am not going to die; I will not let the fever beat me.

I have got to go back. I can't loose consciousness; I can't afford to loose consciousness here. He will find me and he will find this book if I remain and I can't let that happen. I will hide you and go somewhere else; he need never know you exist. I can lie to him about what I have being doing; I will say I have been reading, he will believe that, I spend most of my free time with books.

I think I can hear footsteps. They are close, they're echoing on the stone floor - his heels are hard. They are his boots and they are just outside; I know the sound too well not to recognize it.

I can't write any more. I have to go.

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(1) Health Education.

I am aware that using Blake quotations and stealing the title of his most famous book of poetry must seem very pretentious. Hell, it _is_ pretentious but I promise that I chose the title and the poem because I genuinely felt them to be relevant to the content of this chapter. Promise.

Additionally, I have a somewhat twisted and ironic sense of humour so it tickles me to include a poem that personifies flowers only to have Sarah complain about such poems in the first paragraph of the story.

I hope you enjoyed reading this, especially if you read the first version of it. I was appalled by it upon re-reading it – my prose was so garbled I struggled to understand what I was trying to say.

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!

This was revised for format errors and a few misleading phrases on the 11th March 2010.


	2. A Change Of Mind

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the William Blake poem I have quoted from, just as I do not own anything he has written. **

**Tragic, isn't it?**

Chapter Two: A Change of Mind

_Can I see another's woe_

_And not be in sorrow too?_

_Can I see another's grief_

_And seek for kind relief?_

William Blake. On Another's Sorrow

I will begin by clarifying something that my last words probably made you doubt: I am alive. I have regained control, perception, balance, etc., etc., whatever you want to call it, and am capable of writing again. I had one of the Goblins whom I can trust bring this book to me from the library, which was awfully kind of him, considering how high up on the bookcase it was.

I am in bed and my head propped up by four incredibly soft and clean pillows. Being in the presence of such cleanliness is somewhat surreal; dirt and dust were integral aspects of life here, and now that they are gone I miss them. I spend my days plying myself with the chocolates I brought when I was taken to the Market in the City, just before I fell ill. The chocolates are very nice, although slightly squashed because I sat on them.

Enjoying chocolates now makes me wonder how I coped during the hard times back on earth. I lived a very deprived existence then, and although I am a prisoner now life is infinitely more comfortable. I would say I want for nothing if I didn't want for everything.

I have been unable to do anything but lie in bed and eat chocolates for two weeks, mainly due to my body being unsure whether it wanted to live or die and flitting between the two. It managed to terrify everyone who followed its moods, especially the Goblin King. In my rare moments of consciousness, all I heard were voices – frantic shouts and terrified whispers – and all I saw were blurred faces, peering down at me in despair.

But I am getting distracted, I am sure you are far more interested in reading about what happened to me after I stopped writing last time. If you remember, I was in the library and I was writing this book. I stopped upon hearing footsteps. I pulled my chair to the side of the bookcase nearest to me, climbed on top of it and hid this book on the highest shelf I could reach. Once I had done that, I clambered down and put the chair back behind the desk I had been writing at. Abandoning my work station, I staggered in the direction of the exit, hardly able to see, hardly able to think. My heart pounded in my chest so hard it hurt. While a part of me wanted to see the rage to which I had driven the icy, precise Goblin King, the prospect of facing him terrified me. When I did see him, I froze instantly. He saw me in the same moment I saw him; he looked furious and relieved simultaneously. He didn't approach me.

At this moment, I fainted, crumbling into a pool of delicate pink nightwear. If I had not been a few minutes from death, I am sure he would have been pleased by my reaction.

From what I have been told, he was hardly ever away from me. Everyone was waiting for me to die, so his attentiveness was understandable if unwanted. He would have hated not being able to watch as his favorite pet as it drew its last breath. He was obsessed with me to the point that he failed to pay attention to his actions. On one occasion, he squeezed my hand so hard the pain overwhelmed the numbing effect of the illness, prompting me to speak: "Please, stop."

I fell back into unconsciousness before I could receive a response.

I heard more than I saw; murmurs and exclamations dominated my consciousness. I am pretty sure one particularly drawn out and somber murmur was this place's version of the Last Rites. It sounded serious enough to be that. I realized this particular murmur emerged from the Wise Man who I encountered in the Labyrinth; he must have kept on getting the words wrong because I heard several different voices correct him.

The voices made me curious and prompted me to open my eyes and look around me. Jareth was to my right, holding my hand with admirable care. The Wise Man was to my left; he had a sheath of paper in his hands and held it very close to his eyes, obscuring his face. I only knew it was him because the head of a bird was poking out of his skull. It was raving obnoxiously about religion, and I managed a smile because it sounded so deranged it was funny. My Doctors were lined up against the wall; they were silent and looked every bit as somber and mysterious as they had the day before. Some other people who were too blurred to be distinguishable lingered in the background. To my weak eyes they looked like a confused mass of color; I could only tell the colored mass was composed of people because it moved.

Jareth was blatantly upset, which was strange for me because he is never really sad. He was not crying – I doubt he is capable of tears – but he looked like he was about to. His face was contorted in misery.

I hate seeing men upset. I made Daddy cry once and spent a month apologizing and begging for cuddles just to make him happy.

Although I would never dream of begging the Goblin King for forgiveness of any kind, I found no pleasure in his despair; my lack of malice surprised me. I managed to speak before succumbing to the illness again, turning my head to face him, smiling feebly and saying "Don't be sad."

I lost conscious soon after speaking, but my sleep was what it hadn't been for weeks: calm and peaceful. The next morning, I woke up properly. I ate some fruit and was able to hold a short conversation with my kidnapper, who was a model of kindness and consideration.

I believe that the nasty potions I was forced to drink where what saved me; they were so horrid they must have been good for me. They were always administered by my loathsome Doctors and they glared at me contemptuously as they forced the glass to my lips, ordering me to swallow when they had forced the liquid through. The potions were disgusting; they made me choke and retch. Thankfully, I no longer have to take them.

The wretchedness that had inspired my pity before was gone from his face, so I had no reservations about curtly telling him to dismiss my Doctors. He agreed, and they were told to leave his property as I watched. I smiled spitefully as they filed out of the room, feeling happier than I had been in a long time.

My recovery has pleased Jareth. The first day I woke up, I was given spectacular jewels that make the gold chains and diamonds I already owned look tacky. He insisted on hanging half a dozen necklaces around my neck and pushed a ridiculous number of rings onto my fingers. I hated every second because I hate being touched by him. But there was nothing I could to do to stop him, and by the time he was finished with me my neck was aching on account of the finery it had to support.

I am not going to deny that what he has given me is beautiful. My favorite piece is probably the most delicate; it is a short, slender necklace and consists of sapphires and diamonds set in silver. To begin with the metal felt intensely cold against my throat, but I soon grew accustomed to the feel of it. The way the sapphires catch the light is captivating, there's no denying it's a beautiful thing.

Of my many rings, one of them stubbornly refuses to come off. It is quite pretty and simple; when I squint it looks like a very tiny and intricate mosaic. Even though it is pretty I wish I could remove it; it is a terrible nuisance.

Jewels are one of the perks of this place. I have buckets of them. Jewels that is, not perks. Sadly, perks inhabit a different plane of reality to mine. Pebbles are rarer than pearls here and I have so many diamonds I am starting to think of them as no better than prettily cut shards of glass.

He tries to buy my compliance with jewels; he does not seem to realize I care nothing for them. I have so many now most of them are valueless to me and I simply drop them into a drawer and leave them there to twist and tangle. The Lords and the Ladies here live in sickening luxury, much like the kind I am enjoying now as I lie here on my feather bed and gorge myself on sugar-topped chocolates. The Goblins on the other hand live in squalor, surviving on a diet of ale and the filth they scrape off flagstones. It seems incredibly wrong, but it is the way things are. There is nothing I can do to change it.

The Goblin King has a vast treasury in the bowels of the castle, waiting to be stolen from. The Goblins pilfer from it constantly; they have a magpie like attraction to gleaming objects and the treasury is what they imagine paradise to look like. Sadly for the Goblins, everything in the treasury is enchanted and if an object is removed by anyone other than Jareth it will sprout small, pointed teeth and take bites out of the thief. The teeth only disappear when the object is returned to its place.

As a result of this enchantment, it is common for me to see Goblin dart through the throne room when I am there, howling in pain, as they rush back to the treasury to relieve themselves of their treasure. However, what is really astonishing is the fact that many of the Goblins are so thick-headed they return to the treasury and steal again. The same ugly, worn faces turn up repeatedly. I know some of them by name now. Many of them are very friendly; a few even give me little waves if Jareth is not looking in their direction.

There are two classes of Goblin. The first consists of Goblins who used to be children. The second consists of Goblins who have always been Goblins. I am terribly fond of the latter class; they are very sweet, mainly on account of their childishness. The ones that were turned when they were toddlers are the most endearing: they stumble mindlessly through their lives, asking stupid question and doing stupid things. Some of the former-child Goblins were transformed when they were older, and they tend to be miserable. They remember what they were, and loathe what they have become.

It makes me sad to think about the situation they are in, but glad as well, because I know Toby will never be one of the little monsters I pity so much. I am glad I was given the chance to grow up, although even I am unsure of exactly how mature I am. Sometimes I feel like a clumsy little girl, other times I feel like I have lived far too long.

I like to think of myself as a Wendy figure to the child-Goblins. I try to take care of them, I stand up for them, and they reward me with wilted flowers and crudely drawn cards telling me to 'Git well sun'. They were not as nice to me at first; for the most part I did not see them and when I did they were rude and insulting. Most of them have come around by now, though. I even attempted to teach some of the more eager ones to read. As you can imagine, the lesson was a complete disaster. Several of them tried to eat their pencils, and one of them succeeded, somehow managing to swallow it whole. Jareth teased me about the incident for days.

I hold no such fondness for the other kind of Goblin. That is to say, Jareth's loyal band of cretins who are Goblins by virtue of their blood. They have always eyed me with disdain, and they always will. They will always snigger and jeer if they encounter me alone. I don't really care. They're free to hate me because I hate them.

I am almost enjoying being laid up in bed now. When I am completely well I will be expected to kneel besides his throne again, which makes me knees ache like crazy. Until then, being in a position where no one expects anything of me is strangely relaxing.

Before I started writing this again I was re-reading a memoir by one of Jareth's aunts, I am halfway through the chapter the deals with her marriage to a man two thousand years her senior. She was an extremely malicious person, and spent a great deal of the passage describing the plans for revenge she was finalizing as she walked down the aisle. When I read her story, I am never sure whether I should be amused or disturbed.

As well as my book, I have my beloved Walkman. I am currently listening to _True Blue_, track four. Every other tape I own seems bland and limpid by comparison. I have a horrible feeling that the batteries are wearing out again;I am glad I had dozens of the things with me when I came here. I shudder when I think of having to listen to silence all day.

As much as I like this laziness, I doubt it will last. Similarly, I doubt Jareth will continue being affectionate for much longer. One of us will make the other angry and the cycle of hatred and cruelty will start up again.

Jareth and I had an amusing conversation this morning. It started when I rolled over in my bed to try to find a more comfortable position. I groaned in annoyance when I found the Goblin King standing over my bed and looking stately.

"Leave me alone." I mumbled my demand, rolling again until my face fell into my pillow. I become something of a human ostrich when I'm annoyed.

"I see your temper has returned."

"It never left; I simply lost the ability to express it. Now, go away. You spent half the day with me yesterday. Haven't you got better things to do?"

"Oh, but I do so love hearing your pretty words, your pretty voice. Do not deny me those. As for my duties, the City minds itself; it does not need a nurse. As you are well enough to insult me, you can rise from bed and have lunch with me. I need to speak with you."

"Fine, whatever you want. Just go away."

He heeded me, leaving without another word.

I will see how many words I can write before his return, I aim to cover the single most important event of my life; my time in the Labyrinth.

It was a Saturday in the middle of summer. I spent the afternoon in the park doing what I often did: playing the lead role of the princess from _Labyrinth_. I spoke the lines from memory, acting by myself and ignoring the teenaged boys who jeered at me as they rode past on their bikes. The read-through went perfectly until the penultimate scene when I couldn't remember my final line. I ended up giving in and looking in the book. Doing so felt something like cheating, but I reassured myself I was in the right. I could say it from memory another time.

I was looking at the play script when I heard a clock strike in the distance. I was late! Irene had coerced me into babysitting Toby for yet another night and the clock had conveniently informed me I was already quarter of an hour late. Yelling to my dog, Merlin, and snapping my book shut, I dashed home, holding the skirt of my cheap, linen dress up to stop it dragging on the road. To make matters worse than what they already were, it started to rain the moment I began to run. By the time I got home I was soaked, my clothes were plastered to my body and the only reason I didn't shiver was because I had just sprinted half a mile in satin slippers and an overly long dress.

Irene was waiting for me in the porch, and my heart sank upon seeing her make up-caked face glare at me. I begged her to let me have Merlin inside, but she simply complained and told me to leave him the garage. I scowled at her, making it clear she had just given me another excellent reason to despise her.

I miss Merlin. Jareth has dogs but they are hunting dogs; they are huge and slobber all over my dress whenever I try to play with them. They exist so their owners can boast about their strength and set them upon small, defenseless animals. I do not have any pets here, not anymore.

I resented having to look after Toby, and could think of many good reasons why I did not deserve to be his minder. I was not his mother. I wasn't even his proper sister! Nothing should have been expected of me. To make matters worse, Irene always took it for granted that I had nothing better to do. She never considered my fantasies to be of any value, if something was to seem worthwhile to Irene it had to involve a flesh-and-blood boy. As far as she was concerned, boyfriends who rode into town on white horses instead of motorbikes didn't count because I couldn't introduce them. She worried because I was different to other girls my age, and bothered me about it constantly. I perfected an itinerary of responses to her questioning; they were alternately inhumanly cold and ridiculously overblown. I intended to baffle her with my behavior and, for the most part, succeeded.

On this particular occasion, I responded to Irene with full-blooded anger. I ran up to my room in a rage and pushed the door shut with a crash. Sitting down, I picked up my lipstick and started coloring my lips, gazing steadily at my reflection as I painted them red. I solemnly placed a foil covered crown atop my head, imagining it was real as I read out the most important words in the play: those which the heroine said to defeat the villain.

One half of my gaze was focused on my stiff, sad face, and the other was devoted to the snap-shots of my mother tacked to the glass. Mom was exquisitely beautiful; her exotic, refined face made mine seem flabby and plain by comparison. Her lover – his name was Jeremy - got the occasional glance as well. He had the strangest beautiful face I had ever seen on a man, his thick, golden hair made him seem oddly angelic. _Maybe otherworldly would be a better term, he never seemed prim enough to be an angel._He was English, intelligent, and sounded ten times more cultured than anyone else I knew. I had only met him a few times, but he had managed to impress me and I could never bring myself to hate him like I hated Irene. You see, I understood exactly why Mom left Dad for him. I liked to believe I would have made the same decision, had I been forced to choose.

When I had finished applying the lipstick, Dad knocked on my door. He made a feeble attempt to talk to me before telling me Toby had been put to bed and leaving. I seethed with anger, slamming my lipstick down on the top of the vanity.

Looking away from the mirror, I glanced around my room. I noticed that one of my toys was absent from its cubby hole instantly; Lancelot was missing.

Raving about the extent of my hatred, I got up and I stormed into Toby's room. The first thing I saw was Lancelot lying on the floor. I rushed forward, snatching Lancelot up and pressing him against my chest. He had been given to me when I was a newborn baby. I had photos of a tiny, limp-bodied me lying besides a teddy bear that was the same size as its owner. Lancelot didn't belong to Toby; he was _mine._

I was not sure who I hated most of all in that moment: Dad and Irene or Toby. All I knew for certain was that I despised my half-brother just as much as I hated his mother. Moving over to the crib, I lifted the wailing Toby out of his crib, raising him high into the air as if he were a sacrificial victim. I glared up at him, twisting my face up to express my rage, and said the words, shouting so I would be heard over his enraged screams and the thunder cracks:

"Goblin King! Goblin King! Wherever you may be, take this child of mine far, far away from me!"

In my rage addled brain, I told myself I would be heard. I told myself the Goblins would make my brother disappear and that their love-stricken King would rescue me from my dull, miserable life.

But nothing happened; my outburst inspired no response.

I returned a crying Toby to his crib and left the room, turning off the light. Just before I stepped out of the word, I spoke:

"I wish the Goblins would come and take you away." I paused, slightly taken aback by the sincerity of my words. "Right now." I left, carefully shutting the door behind me.

The first thing I registered upon entering the hall was the silence. Toby had stopped crying. I was surprised to realize I missed his wails. I willed him to scream or cry, but he did neither. He was perfectly quiet; I couldn't even hear him breathing.

I turned back, tentatively pushing the door to his room open and reaching for the light switch. It didn't work, and the shadows in the room remained. I had a horrible feeling that something was wrong, terribly wrong. The room was not empty, yet it was not occupied by Toby. Someone else, a stranger - or maybe even a monster – had gotten inside the house.

A crack of thunder made me jump, and I stared at the window. Streaks of lightening split the sky and as I looked at them a chorus of sniggers struck up in a far corner of the room. I tried to see what was making the noise, and caught quick glimpses of fleeting figures I could only just make out. They were tiny, malformed and completely unlike anything else I had ever seen. My attention was returned to the window soon after, I had heard a strange, scratching noise. A white owl was outside the window, clawing at the glass. Its wings were beating furiously and I knew it wanted to come into the room; it wanted _me._

The window burst open and the owl flew inside. I used my arms to shield my face, stunned and clueless about the right way to respond as the white owl transformed in front of me. I knew exactly what it was turning into, but did not want to watch. Even I knew characters from plays were not supposed to appear in the flesh. I thought that by hiding my eyes I would not have to face the fact the impossible was occurring. But fascination did not take long to overwhelm fear, and I carefully lowered my arms and looked upon the face of my enemy.

The first thing that struck me about him was his appearance. My imagination had always been fond of making him ugly, quite like the tortured, rejected Beast that turned up occasionally in my fairy tales. The man who stood in front of me was anything but monstrous. He was human-like, his face was lean and quite youthful; it looked both serious and playful. His hairstyle was bizarre; he boasted a shock of wild, blond hair that fell to his shoulders. I was too preoccupied by other aspects of his appearance to pay much attention to his ridiculous hair, a pity because laughing at him would have eased a great deal of tension. He looked at me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to say something. My first words to him could not have possibly sounded more stupid:

"You're him, aren't you? You're the Goblin King." He looked highly amused; retrospectively I can say his reaction was understandable. "I want my brother back, if it's all the same."

He found that even more amusing than my silence. When the smile slipped off his mouth, he adopted the role of evil kidnapper with gusto, folding his arms and smiling condescendingly as he informed me I was not getting my brother back without a fight. His dark, elaborate clothes helped complete the persona he was attempting to project; that of a vain, theatrical tyrant. There was some kind of armor on his chest and he had a huge, stiff collar that could just be seen behind his shock of hair. He radiated self-importance.

He makes no secret of his vanity. He rarely wears a piece of clothing twice; if he does it is particularly favored. His wardrobe is at least as large as the dining hall, and knowing him he probably has more than one. Silk shirts, iron wrought amour, leather breeches, knee lengths boots, raggedy cloaks; he has several dozen of each. Oddly though, he does not like mirrors. He likes making _me_ look in mirrors, but has an aversion to his own reflection. Maybe he doesn't like being reminded of his age.

Although I did not realize at the time, he was flirting with me in his weird, highly indirect way. When he told me I was no ordinary girl, he was flattering me. When he told me to take the crystal from him and have my dreams, he was trying to make me into what I am now. His pampered little prisoner kept in a pretty room and plied with pretty things; that was his conception of my dream. I have always been insulted by how superficial he thought I was.

I occasionally wonder what would have happened if I had taken the crystal from him.

Sometimes I think I would have been treated like an eternally innocent child. I would have been installed in a room that consisted of clean, white walls and a silk swamped bed. He would have brought me all of the things I desired from home - my books, costumes, dolls and teddy bears – to keep home-sickness at bay. I would have thought he was being kind.

Other times I think he would have been more direct. I would have been married to him, coaxed into pronouncing my eternal love and kissing him delicately on the lips, within an hour of leaving home. I would have probably had a nasty, screaming baby of my own within a year.

Thinking about either option makes me feel sick.

I was too naïve and frightened to understand anything what I was being offered. All I fully comprehended was the fact he was a villain, a bad man who had to be turned down. I rejected his offer stiffly but politely, patiently reminding him that I wanted one thing; my brother.

He did not take rejection very well; indeed he tossed a snake at me and smirked when I shrieked. I frantically attempted to pry the coiled snake from my neck, and only stopped struggling when the snake transformed into a patterned scarf and slipped harmlessly onto the floor.

When he realized no amount of coercion was going to convince me to give up, he ushered me into his world (which conveniently appeared in my back garden), telling me I had thirteen hours to solve the Labyrinth and save my baby brother. Once he had issued his ultimatum, he quite literally faded away, leaving me alone on a barren, dust swept hill.

I made my way towards the Labyrinth without as much as a backward glance. I was like a wound up tin soldier, marching obliviously into the unknown. I think I took it for granted that I would be okay, I told myself I simply had to follow the plot of the play and all would be well. The princess of the play had defeated the Goblin King, and I could have similar success if I emulated her.

Almost immediately, I encountered a very ugly, very rude, dwarf called Hoggle. He endeavored to make himself hateful, but I persisted in my attempts to be friends with him and he eventually came around. We were both referring to each other as friends before long. Hoggle was the one who showed me into the Labyrinth and although he abandoned me within minutes I was glad for his help.

Thinking about him and my other friends upsets me. It is terrible, how he treats them now. I wish they were free, but he refuses to show them any mercy. He has let me see Hoggle on more than one occasion, so I know how much he has suffered for me. I would give anything to take his place, but Jareth will never allow me that. He doesn't want to see me in chains. For him abusing them is yet another assertion of power. He likes it when I beg him, his face softens slightly when I become distressed and loose all my pride.

They deserve to suffer, according to his morality. They tried to help a contender win, which counts as high treason here. They are only kept alive as bargaining chips; he frequently uses them to persuade me to obey him. Loathsome pig.

I met many other great friends on my journey through the Labyrinth. The first after Hoggle was Ludo, a huge, shaggy haired monster who possessed the intelligence of a three year old. He was lovely; I had to restrain myself from embracing him because he was just like a huge, cuddly toy that magic had brought to life. He has love and kindness for everyone he meets; he innocently trusts everyone and only knows a few words. Sadly his innocence was what resulted in his downfall; he was so trusting he was the first of my friends to be made Jareth's prisoner. I don't know where he is anymore. All I know is that I hope he is no longer where Jareth told me he was.

Then there was Sir Didymus, a tiny, fox like creature that wore an eye patch and wielded a slender sword. He was adorable, although slightly annoying on account of his high pitched voice and brainless chivalry. I spent a great deal of time chasing after him to stop him getting killed.

The Goblin King followed my progress, and visited me several times during my journey, and after his first appearance I kept on expecting him to turn up again. I tried to forget him and focus on my goal, but that was hard because he is not the kind of person who is easily forgotten. You one whose hair shimmers is attempting to blend in.

Towards the end of my journey through the Labyrinth, I and my party found ourselves in a strange, desolate wood. Like most things in the Labyrinth, it glittered. I had not eaten in hours, and was starving. To me delight, Hoggle offered me a fat, rosy skinned peach and I thanked him warmly, taking it from him and biting into the fruit's flesh. I instantly knew something was wrong, the peach did not taste right. I felt light headed and took a few tottering steps, reaching an arm out and grabbing a branch to steady myself.

I wanted to ask Hoggle what he had done to me, but he had already gone. I was alone with the trees. The scenery began to dance, the trees that surrounded me spun on the spot, proffering their gnarled branches to partners, and the dirt encrusted leaves that carpeted the ground began to move, rushing forward in seamless waves. Before long, the dancing trees and waves of leaves faded from sight, and I was transported to a strange, eerie place I know I will struggle to describe. I could not remember what happened to me after it first happened, memories of it have been returning in pieces.

The only way I can describe my position is like this; I was in a tiny, coffin like room and watched myself through a glass window as I wandered aimlessly through a beautiful ballroom. Many others were in the place with me; the room was thronged with masked people who shot me sly, sideways looks –

Oh no. Midday arrived more quickly than I thought it would. Excuse me; I have to play dead.

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As with chapter one, this has been almost completely re-written. I do not own Labyrinth or any of the characters or scenarios the film features. All of the dialogue in the section dealing with Sarah's journey through the Labyrinth is taken from the film's script, and was written by the screenwriter.

Sorry for partially re-writing the film. Let's just say Sarah doesn't know about it, okay?

The title of this chapter is taken from a psychedelic British television series called The Prisoner.

The poem at the beginning is by Blake again, and is also taken from the Songs of Innocence and Experience. I have been naughty and tampered with it, removing commas and adding question marks. I do not own!

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!


	3. Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the William Blake poem I have quoted from, just as I do not own anything he has written. **

**Tragic, isn't it?**

Chapter Three: Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling

_C__ruelty has a Human Heart,_

_And jealousy a Human Face;_

_Terror the Human Form Divine,_

_And secrecy the Human Dress._

William Blake. The Divine Vision

He can't mean it. He's lying. He must be lying.

Maybe it's a joke – a tasteless, sick joke, but a joke all the same. He's tells similarly unfunny jokes all the time. I might be able to forgive him if this is one of them.

He must be insane. That's the only other explanation. I don't know if I should be laughing hysterically or sobbing hysterically. Both responses would be appropriate.

I have finally lost. Failure is a horrible, deflating feeling. It means he has won. He doesn't deserve to feel victory, yet he has felt it. Many times.

It isn't right.

He doesn't have any morals. I have told him this before but he has simply told me that his morals are different to mine. I don't believe him; he does not do any good, and therefore any morality of his must only exist to excuse wickedness. Morals that excuse his behavior aren't really morals at all.

There is a persistent rapping noise on my door. He wants me to let him in. Ha!

He doesn't need to bother with knocking; he can come in whenever he wants . . . yet he does not. Maybe he thinks I'll let him off for good behavior. Deluded fool.

If I did not have my headphones clamped over my ears, I would probably be able to hear him as he tries to appeal to my reason. I'm glad I can't. Madonna's voice is far more soothing than his.

I am not going to write about the present anymore. I have to be disciplined; I have to exercise restraint before this becomes unintelligible.

I'm not going to finish describing what happened in the Labyrinth in detail. All you need to know is that the ballroom was a fabrication, a horrible dream world that tried to trap me. I was too clever for it and escaped. I reached the castle at the center of the Goblin City and defeated the Goblin King. My baby brother and I were sent home.

I won, and I can confidently say that winning is the most wonderful feeling in the world.

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…

I woke up reluctantly the morning after returning from the Labyrinth. The sun was obnoxiously bright and its rays hit my eyes, forcing me to squint. I attempted to ignore it and rolled over, mumbling inaudibly, trying to force out the distracting thoughts that cluttered my brain so I could return to sleep.

Just as my thoughts finally started diffusing there was a loud knock at my door.

"Sarah! Wake up! It's time for breakfast!"

I groaned and rolled over again, this time so my face was buried in my pillow. Irene waited a few seconds before knocking again, louder:

"Sarah! We have to be at the church in an hour! Get a move on!"

I sat up and stared hatefully at the door. "Stop yelling. I'm getting up."

Satisfied because she had managed to shout me out of dreamland, Irene walked away. I heard the top step on the stairway creak as she went downstairs.

I promptly flopped back down on the bed, shut my eyes, and smiled.

My friends from the Labyrinth had turned up in my room for a party the night before, and by the time I had shooed the last Goblin out it was three in the morning. I had only managed to get five hours sleep. They were not even particularly restful hours; I had slept fitfully, unable to throw off a strange sense of anxiety. Then, of course, my storybook model of an evil stepmother woke me up.

In a way, I didn't mind feeling sleep deprived. The party was wonderful. My room was packed with friends and we made a lot of noise and played stupid, senseless games. To this day I'm amazed my parents didn't hear anything.

All my friends were there, and there were many others whom I hardly knew. It was a menagerie of weird and wonderful creatures: there were dozens of Goblins, a family of small, colorful worms, and several remarkably well behaved chickens.

Then there was the Fire Gang, a group of creatures so distinctive they deserve a paragraph of their own. They spent most of the party throwing various body parts around the room. They constantly knocked over ornaments and the heads they sent flying across the room cackled gleefully whenever they hit someone.

I didn't care a bit. They could have chewed the family photos I had carefully packed away in my dresser and spat them out onto the floor and I would have laughed.

No one mentioned the Goblin King. They were all probably afraid and didn't want to spoil my hour of victory with warnings. Either that or they didn't realize how the Goblin King takes to failure and rejection. Whatever the truth is, I'm sure they meant well.

My happy thoughts were abruptly halted by another knock.

"What's taking you so long?"

"I'm coming!" I pulled the covers off me dramatically and swung my legs over the side of the bed. It was at this point that I saw my room. After first taking the sight of it in, I rubbed my eyes to check I was seeing properly. I didn't want to believe what I was seeing was real.

My room looked like it had just been hit by a nuclear bomb. All of the drawers of my dresser had been pulled out, their contents were scattered across the floor. My wardrobe had been flung open, most of my clothes had been taken out and the rest were piled at the bottom of the wardrobe; all of them were dirty and ripped.

"Sarah! If you don't open the door this instant I'm coming in!"

"No! I'm not dressed, give me a minute!"

I was torn between getting dressed and cleaning. I decided to try and clean and walked gingerly over a layer of my belongings to where most of my clothes were piled up. I picked a few dozen of them up in my arms and stuff them back in the wardrobe. Sending my gaze frantically across the room to try and work out what to do next, I realized that one of my hand mirrors had broken and little pieces of glass were over the floor. Groaning, I fell onto my hands and knees and tried to scoop the fragments up with my hands. Unfortunately one of them embedded itself in my finger and I promptly howled in pain.

Irene burst into the room. After a few stunned, silent seconds, she started screaming at me.

I was too annoyed to listen to her. All I picked up was that I had to do the dishes for two weeks to make up for abusing her and Dad's trust. She also subjected me to a brief interrogation that tried to discover how I had managed to create such chaos, but I didn't say a word. I could hardly tell her the truth and felt too thickheaded to construct a convincing lie.

She ended up leaving me alone with an order to get dressed and be downstairs within five minutes. Sifting through my clothing, I found the only respectable things that had not been destroyed and made it back to my bed. I pulled on some old-fashioned tights, held my stomach in to fit into an itchy, pleated skirt I had last worn when I was twelve and buttoned myself into an indecently tight blouse I brought to be daring but never worn. To try and look slightly more demure, I found and pulled on a jacket that was two sizes too big and made me look a few dozen pounds overweight. Content with my appearance, I made my way out of my room, smiling very slightly to myself as my thoughts returned to my victory.

Conquering the Goblin King: my great, brilliant success. I was a winner.

I am certain Irene thought I was deranged when I came down to breakfast. I continued to smile and spoke to her in a way that gave the impression I didn't hate her.

After apologizing to Irene for the state of my room, I darted into the lounge and flung my arms around Dad, crushing his newspaper in the process. His body was tense at first; he seemed to have no idea how to respond to such a spontaneous display of affection. I hadn't hugged him in years. Eventually he relaxed and hugged me back.

"You seem cheerful this morning, Buttercup. Any reason?"

The last time he had called me Buttercup, I had been a pink cheeked, pig-tailed eight year old. I beamed at him, squeezing him a little bit more tightly.

"No, not really. I'm sorry about messing up your paper. I love you, Dad."

"I love you too."

I kissed him on the forehead and retreated, smiling at him just as brightly as before.

Irene watched my journey to the breakfast table in amazement. I did not drag my feet. I did not look like someone had just died. Perhaps even more incredibly, I poured my own cereal and, once I had eaten it, offered to help feed Toby.

My bemused stepmother replied to me in a vague, mildly suspicious voice that suggested she believed herself to be in a dream. "Yes please, Sarah. That would be great."

I spoke enthusiastically to Toby as I fed him and patiently cleaned his chin when he dribbled. Within the space of a few minutes, all of the food that had been on his little plate had gone. Admittedly a portion of it had ended up on me, but I didn't make a fuss and wiped my blouse clean before doing the dishes.

On the way to church, I pushed Toby's stroller proudly as Irene and Dad trotted along behind us. It was not a particularly nice day; the clouds that covered the sky were grey and the wind was unusually cold for the time of year. Even though it was ugly and had no shape, I was glad for my jacket. My only worry was that it might rain.

After walking at a mind-numbingly sensible pace for a few minutes, I started speeding up, graduating to a brisk walk at first and then to a run. Toby and I raced along and I only just heard Irene order me to slow down over the roar of the wind. I was giggling helplessly by the time I stopped the stroller.

Irene did not see the funny side and lectured me at length as she pushed Toby along at the sensible speed that bored me so desperately. I was walking in front of her as she spoke, and rolled my eyes. As far as I was concerned, she was worrying unduly.

When we got to the church I begged Irene to let me hold Toby. She exchanged looks with Dad, and he urged her to let me have him. He was probably terrified I would start being bratty again if he didn't indulge my sudden burst of interest in Toby.

Irene passed Toby to me and to my delight he smiled at me and grabbed a lock of my hair, pulling it sharply. I winced but said nothing when he pulled at my hair. I was simply glad I was amusing him.

I didn't think much about religion at all during the service. The reverend had decided to go out on a limb and quote from one of the more bizarre passages from the Book of Revelations. Let me test how good my memory is:

"_I viewed a woman astride a scarlet colored beast, full of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in scarlet, and decked out with precious stones and pearls, having a golden chalice in her hand full of abominations."_

I think that's right.

Although the language was beautiful, the passage was virtually unintelligible deprived of context. I heard a few snippets of the sermon; there was some passionate condemnation of 'this age of materialism and excess' and an overly detailed description of the bountiful and surprisingly colorful vices of Rome. Even though I knew the reverend was being a terrible hypocrite (everyone knew about his Mercedes-Benz) I admired him for quoting Revelations. It had always been my favorite book of the Bible, mainly because it overflowed with vividly rendered monsters.

The reverend made a valiant attempt to explain the passage, but most members of the congregation, including my parents, looked completely mystified. I must have simply looked inattentive, because I was busy thinking about the Labyrinth and was only reminded of the real world when Toby squirmed against my grip.

The Labyrinth was real. The destruction the Fire Gang had inflicted upon my belongings made me certain of it. My fantasies didn't simply exist within me; they were autonomous. The make-believe friends I had relied upon since childhood had lives of their own.

Knowing that felt incredible.

My experiences made Dorothy's feelings upon returning from Oz amazingly clear; I could feel her wonder and exhilaration and, to an extent, her relief upon getting home. My Nana had introduced me to _The Wizard of Oz_ when I was a little girl. Dad sometimes had to go away overnight on business trips and on those occasions I would stay with his parents. Nana always read me stories before I went to sleep, and I invariably asked for stories written by Mister Baum.

I felt lucky and proud. I wanted to tell someone, someone who wouldn't think I was mad. I was tempted to tell Nana but eventually came to the conclusion that even she would probably think I was insane. The world wasn't ready to take a story like mine seriously.

My thoughts quickly turned to how fortunate I had been. Toby had only been a few seconds away from being transformed into a Goblin. I shuddered minutely at the thought. Then my thoughts turned from Toby's hypothetical fate to mine. What would have happened to me if I had lost? Would I have been turned into a Goblin as well? Or would I have been sent home with nothing but a terrible feeling of guilt?

Those possibilities seem so narrow to me now. I was shockingly close minded.

Then, finally, I thought about my friends. Were they okay? They wouldn't be in any trouble with the Goblin King, would they?

I was surprised by the anxiety I felt on their account. I was an inherently selfish person and feeling such concern for others was an uncomfortable, squirm-worthy feeling.

I was quick to reassure myself that I was worrying over nothing. I told myself I would speak to them in the evening. They would smile and laugh and I would not have to worry about them anymore.

The extent of my anxiety made me tighten my hold on Toby and he wailed indignantly. Within a second the nosier members of the congregation – all women, nearly all hat wearing and elderly – turned their heads to glare at us. They blatantly loved the drama of it. For them, staring at a squealing baby was far more interesting than listening to the reverend as he offered long, complicated explanations of Biblical metaphors. Everyone else in the church concentrated more intently on the sermon, consciously neglecting to pass judgment on me.

My face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet and I looked desperately at Dad, begging him for permission to leave in a whisper. He nodded discreetly and I got to my feet and rushed out, staring intently at my feet to avoid the gaze of the crowd.

To my dismay, it was raining and I was forced to stand in the entrance of the church as I bounced Toby in my arms, alternately shushing him and begging him to quiet down.

My efforts did nothing to stop him howling, and I ended up looking away from Toby in despair. My face creased up in consternation for a group of ravens were loitering on the path a few feet away from me. They stared at me with their bright, black eyes. I was curious at first, then a little scared because of the intensity of their looks. Birds were not supposed to look at people so intelligently, just as they were not supposed to be in the open when it was raining. The longer they stayed where they were, the more I wished they would fly off to take shelter in the trees.

"Shoo, go away." I jerked my right foot in their direction. They swept lazily into the air before landing in the spot they had occupied before. They continued staring.

To my great relief, Toby started calming down. His screams became sniffles, he stopped pummeling me with his fists and, eventually, his head lolled against my chest. I retreated into the church, maneuvering my way back to my seat just as the last word of the ending hymn echoed around the church. The reverend thanked everyone for coming, and the congregation was finally released.

Everyone shuffled in their seats and tried to yank on coats and jackets without bashing the person next to them with their elbows; most people, including the stocky, middle aged man who was stood next to me, failed. Rain battered the wooden roof of the church and I dreaded going outside, knowing I would get soaked.

We managed to fight our way through the crowds and out of the church. Upon getting into the open, I looked up into the sky for the ravens. There was nothing to see, and all I could feel was the rain as it wetted my face.

After church we went to see Nana. We always went to see Nana. We stayed for the whole afternoon and she – as she invariably did – made us a masterful roast dinner that put Irene's meals to shame. Nana lived on her own because Granddad had died two years before, so she liked seeing us. We kept her from feeling lonely.

I think she loved Toby and me better than anyone else in the world. Toby especially. She was always rambling about how he was the image of Dad when he had been a baby and brought him more presents for Christmas than Irene and Dad did. I don't mean to give the impression she didn't love me, though: I was always given warmth and affection. It was just that she always treated me with a small dose of apprehension. I think it was because my looks meant I reminded her of my mother. Nana made no secret of her opinion of _her._ Linda Williams was wicked, the great whore, the traitor whose hated name was not to be said aloud.

I'll never forget following her around the house as she took every image of my mother off display, moving from room to room methodically, only pausing when she came across a photo of the runaway Mrs. Williams. She would pick up the photo and drop into the large, black bag she was dragging along behind her. I asked her what she was doing, I asked again and again, but she didn't speak. I was never told why all the photos of my mother were thrown away; I had to puzzle out the truth out for myself.

Nana always gave us small gifts when we visited. Toby generally got rattles or chew toys and I was given make-up or scraps of silk which I used to decorate my hair. I think it's sad that she felt the need to provide us with incentives for visiting her.

When we arrived this Sunday, Nana did what she always did, fussing over us. She gazed upon our dripping forms in horror and drew us all into the hall, helping Dad out of his coat and berating him for forgetting his umbrella. I giggled slightly as I watched them; he reverted to being a little boy when he was around his mother and his embarrassment was an inexhaustible source of amusement.

She removed the plastic covering from Toby's stroller and lifted him out, bouncing him in her arms and barraging him with baby-talk. He looked slightly taken aback and mumbled something unintelligible back to her, prompting her to shriek in excitement. "Aww! Look at him! He's trying to speak! Aren't you a clever boy? Aren't you a clever little angel?"

Irene registered Toby's red, scrunched-up face, hurried over to Nana, and took him back, murmuring to him soothingly and leaving Nana alone with me as she retreated into the kitchen

Nana turned to me, smiling warmly and saying: "How are you, darling? Are you enjoying your weekend?"

"Yes, thanks. It's just a pity that it's been raining so much."

"Yes, that is a shame. I have a little present for you dear, hold out your hand."

I did as she asked and closed my eyes. Nana quickly pressed something delicate and cold into the palm of my hand, gently folding my fingers over it. "Open your eyes."

I did and looked at what I had been given. A long, silver chain was in my hand, a sunflower shaped charm hanging at the end of it.

"Thank you so much! It's just beautiful!" I flung my arms around her, almost knocking her over in the process. I was shocked by how fragile she felt, her shoulder blades jutted out of her back like knife blades and I got the impression she would snap in two if I squeezed her too hard. Realizing that was unsettling; Nana had always radiated strength. She was a strong, domineering woman. I was always slightly afraid of her, even when she was being nice.

"I knew you'd like it, sweetie." Nana patted my back with her bony hand and I carefully pulled away, beaming at her to make sure she knew just how much I loved her. I fetched Dad from the kitchen and made him put the chain around my neck. I was enraptured by it despite its simplicity, and fingered it curiously throughout dinner.

Nana's roasts were exceptionally tasty. The gravy always scalded my tongue because it was boiling hot, the potatoes were always crispy and crunchy and the chicken was always mouthwateringly good. They were nothing like the ready meals Irene served for dinner and bear even less resemblance to the food I am served now.

I miss Nana. I want to be fussed over by her. Oh God, I want to go home.

Dorothy was right. There is no place like home.

…

…

…

When we got home, I went straight to my room to fulfill my promise to Irene. I removed my jacket, tied my hair up in a ponytail and pushed the sleeves of my blouse up my arms.

I began by picking my clothes off the floor and organizing them into piles: one pile had to be washed, one had to be ironed, and the third had to be returned to my wardrobe. Doing that took me an hour, and an onlooker would have struggled to realize I had been cleaning at all by the time I had sorted my clothes. It continued to look like a war zone. I managed to clear the floor of most of what had been thrown upon it, piling my belongings onto my bed.

After sloping downstairs to get a drink and passing some toys to Toby, who was trapped in his playpen, I returned to my room armed with a dustpan and brush. I swept the pieces of my broken mirror off the floor. After I had disposed of them, I found the vacuum and cleaned every chunk of fur and patch of dirt off the carpet.

I spent another hour returning my unbroken possessions to their places. When I finally finished doing that I flopped down on my bed and rested. For once, I felt like I had truly achieved something.

After I had rested for a few minutes, there was a knock at my door. "Can I come in, Sarah?"

"Sure."

Irene entered my room, stopping in the doorway. For once she looked pleasantly surprised. "You did a really good job of cleaning up. I'm sorry for flying off the handle this morning; you didn't deserve to be shouted at." Her apology was followed by an uncomfortable silence that I did nothing to disturb. "You don't have to do the dishes anymore, if you don't want to."

I shook my head. "No, I'll do them. It would do me good to have some responsibility."

"Thanks, Sarah." She smiled at me slightly. For once, I had said something Irene approved of. "Good night."

"Good night."

Irene left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

When I was sure Irene had went downstairs, I got up and went to the door and checked that it was closed properly. If I was going to talk to my friends through the mirror, it was vital I wasn't heard. My parents thought I was crazy enough as it was without hearing me talk to my reflection.

Outside, it continued to rain. Lightening and thunder had struck up as well; the weather conditions bore an unnerving similarity to those of the previous night.

I refused to let the weather worry me, moved calmly to my vanity, and sat down. I was surprised by the state of my reflection; I knew I was tired but I hadn't realized just how bad I looked. My eyes were ringed with grey skin and strands of my hair which had escaped from my ponytail trailed down the sides of my face. I looked far older than fifteen, and felt dirty and ugly. I really wanted a shower, but told myself to put it off until I had checked on Hoggle and the rest of my friends.

I took a deep breath and addressed my mirror in a soft whisper, "Hoggle, I need you."

The mirror fogged, obscuring my reflection but not wiping it out entirely. Within a few seconds the fog cleared and I found myself looking at a small, dark room. A figure was hunched up in a corner, looking exhausted and scared. His eyes glinted in the small amount of light that filtered into the room from above him; he was crying.

Suddenly, the figure got to his feet. They must have heard something because he ran across the room, into the light. At that moment I realized the figure was Hoggle and that he had run straight towards a row of spears. He moved back slowly, raising his hands into the air as he gazed ahead in terror. His chest rose and fell rapidly. The crags in his face were clogged up with filth, and half-healed cuts marred his face.

His began to move, and as I watched he fell to his knees and wrung his hands. He was begging someone I couldn't see, and I couldn't even hear what he was begging for because the mirror didn't produce a sound.

I felt so useless, I wanted to cry.

Dad called up to me, asking if I was alright. I didn't answer.

Then, very suddenly, I heard a voice. A clipped, cultured voice.

"What have we here? Is it by any chance Hogstead? Our dear, traitorous friend? You are quite incredible to look at you know: you have somehow managed to make yourself more disgusting."

Hoggle gabbled something unintelligible, shuffling forward on his knees and trying to grab hold of the Goblin King's cloak. He was kicked violently in the stomach; the force of the strike sent him flying into the wall. His face contorted in agony, and he gripped his stomach, groaning.

After he had laughed at my friend's agony, Jareth turned his attention to the guards, who had been goggling at Hoggle, sniggering amongst themselves in malicious delight. "Take him away." He issued the order lazily, he sounded bored by the whole affair. "I do not want to lay my eyes on his face again."

His cronies ran towards Hoggle and forced him to his feet, quickly dragging him out of my sight.

Only Jareth remained in the room. I paid close attention to his face, searching for a trace of remorse or doubt. I found neither. He looked indecently happy: he smiled slightly to himself and even started whistling a merry tune. His face, like mine, bore signs of having had little sleep. His eyes were shadowed, and he looked battered and worn. Whenever he stepped into the light I saw thin, grey lines in his hair. He had aged but didn't seem to mind. Indeed, he looked like he was dwelling on his happiest memory.

Then he turned around and looked straight at me. I recoiled from the mirror, terrified. He knew I could see him.

He said nothing. He didn't need to. His smug smile made his position clear: he was in control. A chill crept over my body. I didn't realize what it was at first and Jareth gave nothing away; he simply continued to stare at me, smiling enigmatically.

His smile disturbed me, and I tried to get up. My body refused to budge. I started panicking, twisting my face in concentration as I willed myself to move. No amount of urging affected me, and I remained as still as a block of stone. Jareth extended his smile, laughing at me. Infuriatingly, he didn't say a word.

My thoughts raged. Can he get through? Oh God, can he get through? What about Toby? Dad? Nana? He wouldn't hurt them, would he? Has he lost his sanity? He's laughing too much to be sane; failure must have sent him mad. Why is he looking at me like that? I wish he wouldn't look at me like that. Stop it. Don't look at me! Go away! Go away!

He took a few steps forward, and reached his hand towards my face. His smile had been replaced by a frown, and he moved his hand slowly towards me.

I was terrified his fingers would pass through the glass, and managed a whimper. I feared he would grab my ponytail and drag me through the mirror. Terrified, I wondered what he would do to me if he could touch me only to realize I didn't have a clue. I didn't know a thing about him, besides what I had learned from my play. My heart nearly died when his hand froze, only for my body to be flooded by relief when I realized he couldn't reach me. He was trapped on his side of reality. The fact he couldn't touch me failed to worry him; instead of caressing my face he tenderly passed his fingers across the surface of the mirror. He couldn't touch me, but he could touch my reflection.

He caressed my reflection as he spoke, smoothing his fingers against the glass. "You don't belong where you are, dear. You lost your way." He paused, and moved his fingers to the image of my lips. "Don't worry. I have found you now. Come closer, let me feel you."

He moved his free hand towards the mirror, and my left hand responded, flattening itself against his. He pressed his larger hand against mine, taking some sort of gratification from the simulation of intimacy.

He pushed his hand against the mirror, and I swear I felt his shadowed hand touch mine. It was cold and so smooth it might as well have been carved out of marble. The cold traveled from my palm to my wrist, settling around my pulse. My whole body was freezing, and I trembled in my chair. I tried to scream for help, but could not. All that emerged from me was the stifled whimper I had managed before.

He addressed me again, this time his voice was soft and low. "Do you remember when I offered you your dreams, Sarah? They were beautiful, weren't they? You were foolish to turn them down, because you are going to be sad now. Poor child, I pity you."

My face was a picture of incomprehension. I know, because my vague, faded reflection gave me a bewildered stare.

He continued despite my inability to understand him. "Was my offer inadequate? My mind reels to consider what it would take to please _you_. Then again, that doesn't matter now; your happiness is irrelevant. Still, I see that I tire you, so I will leave you now. Do not try to forsake me, Sarah; I will never forsake you. Sleep now, dear. You need to."

I obeyed him. My eyes closed and I slumped forward, falling asleep in front of my mirror.

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A/N: I made Sarah mangle Revelations on purpose, after all, can anyone here remember it properly without checking? Raise your hand is the answer is yes, I'll be extremely impressed and give you a virtual pat on the head.

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!


	4. Dreams

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the William Blake poem I have quoted from, just as I do not own anything he has written. **

**Tragic, isn't it?**

Chapter Four: Dreams

_And their sun does never shine._

_And their fields are bleak and bare._

_And their ways are filled with thorns._

_It is eternal winter there._

William Blake. Holy Thursday

When I woke up, I was convinced I was trapped. My body felt sweaty and stiff. Panicking, I kicked my comforter off and started searching my bed for Lancelot, frantically patting the mattress because my vision was blurred. But he was not there, and it slowly dawned on me that he was not mine anymore. I had given him away, but I wished I hadn't. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to press him against my chest and feel safe again.

Although the Goblin King had scared me with his weird display of affection, his treatment of Hoggle had scared me more. I winced when I remembered how my friend had been treated. How could anyone be so evil? What made him do it? The Goblin King of my play had never been so evil: his only crime had been sacrificing logic to passion.

I sat up slowly, my body trembling. The room was cold. I leaned forward and pulled the comforter back over me, holding it tightly around my body. I folded my legs to my chest and lowered my head until it rested between them. I hid my face behind my dark mass of hair.

That is not to say that I believed my efforts would stop him seeing me.

I suspected he could look at me whenever he wanted to. He could probably see me when I undressed, spy on me when I showered. All he needed was a mirror. Thinking about it made me shiver. He was sick; a vile, loathsome pervert. I had never thought of him in such a demeaning way before, but his treatment of me the night before reassured me: he deserved every damning label I could give him.

I stirred upon hearing my door creak open, and raised my head to discover who was coming in. The room was a patchwork of pale blobs, and all I could see of the figure was that he was male. I drew away in fear, and only calmed down when the figure said my name. It was Daddy.

Hearing him speak delivered me back to reality. It was Monday morning. My first instinct was to rise, pull on some clothes, grab my bag and run like hell to catch the bus. But I was hardly able to raise my head; exhaustion crippled me.

Dad approached me slowly, probably fearing my temper. His features softened with compassion when he saw how bad I looked. "Aww, Kitten, you look real ill. No school for you today."

I started panicking instantly. I had to go to school. I would be safe at school; I'd be able to hide myself in the crowds. "No school? But Dad, I have to go! I've got work! I'll miss out! I'm not as bad as I look, really I'm not. . . ."

My plea worked against me; my voice emerged as a thin rasp and it only heightened his sympathy.

"No; you're staying home. You work too hard, do you know that? I caught you flat out in front of the mirror last night. You wouldn't even wake up when I had to lift you to bed! And you've got some puppy fat that needs shedding." He laughed insincerely; in his own, weak ineffectual way he was trying to relieve our conversation of some tension.

I thought Dad would leave when his laugh faded and the room went silent. I prepared to beg him to stay in my pathetic, husky whisper, but he did not go. He merely looked uncomfortable and anxiously sent his gaze to various parts of my room. After half a minute of delay tactics he finally returned his attention to me. Uncharacteristically, he looked solemn. "Could I look at your wrist, buttercup?"

I had no notion why he was asking for something so odd, but obediently drew my hands out from underneath the covers, "Which one?"

He took hold of my left wrist, and turned it over gently. I gasped; my wrist was bruised. The bruises were incredibly light, indeed they could have been faded patches of inflicted by a leaking pen were it not for the fact all of the marks were delicate shades of purple.

I spoke before Dad had a chance to. "What? How did they get there?" Seeing the marks revolted me. I shut my eyes and shivered when I remembered the icy sensation that had coiled around my wrist the night before. The bruises were tokens of his fascination with me. I wished he had been conventional and left me flowers. They would have been easy to destroy.

I made a pathetic attempt to explain the marks away. "I think I must have knocked it on something, I'm so clumsy." I laughed, managing to sound extremely unconvincing. Hearing my poor excuse for a lie gave me a renewed appreciation of my mom's acting ability.

Incredibly, Dad accepted my excuse. He even seemed relieved by the simplicity of my explanation. I hate that about adults; they are always suspicious about their children but are generally happiest when they hear neat, innocent explanations that make everything hunky dory again.

But maybe that rule just applies to my dad. He had to go to work and would have probably nodded his head and smiled in acknowledgement if I had told him the truth.

Dad stroked my hair absently, saying comforting things and telling me that Irene had gone into town. According to him, she would be back soon to take care of me. He left after that, leaving me completely unconvinced by his reassurances. I had visions of Irene sat in her favorite hair salon, distributing gossip about me to anyone who would listen. I could even picture the magazine she would be flicking through: _Vogue._ Irene subscribed to it and back issues were scattered all over the house. The sleek-haired models that occupied its covers always looked the same: they boasted the same forced smiles and pink glossed lips. They looked maddeningly insipid and I hated them.

Ironically, I could be one of those girls now. I look starved, courtesy of my illness; my looks are dark and well-defined and my face is strikingly hollow. All I need is crimped hair, bangs and a great big smile.

But I digress yet again, and must return to the matters at hand. I felt sad when Dad left, vulnerable and exposed. I remembered the time I caught the flu when I was seven. Dad had had to go to work so he had asked Nana and Granddad to come and take care of me. I had hated him for leaving me. His abandonment of me had made me feel unwanted and unloved; I managed to convince myself he preferred his miserable old clients to me, his sweet, lovable little girl. I was open about my misery. I wept into my pillow. I screamed and wailed and kicked when Nana tried to comfort me. In fact, I refused to calm down at all until I was presented with a huge bag of sweets; I sucked on them continuously for hours. I chewed them silently; the only sound in the room was the obnoxious clicking noise produced whenever a sweet knocked against my teeth.

I felt similarly unhappy on this occasion, although I was too stoical to cry. Besides, there was no point in crying if no one was present to pity me. So I decided to get up and go downstairs. I would watch TV, read a book, do some cleaning; anything to make me forget what had happened the night before.

Unlike my mind, my body had no desire to move. My eyelids drooped. The rain outside gently tapped my window, the steadiness of its rhythm encouraging me to sleep. My disheveled bed felt comfortable and warm but I forced myself to get up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and getting onto my feet. After pulling my bathrobe on and loosely tying the cord, I tottered into the bathroom. I soaked a washcloth with cold water and after wringing it out used it to scour my face. My cheeks throbbed by the time I was finished, but I felt satisfactorily alert and started the journey downstairs.

I gripped the banister all the way down, moving very carefully and paying close attention to where I put my feet. I did not feel awake enough to take the locations of the steps for granted.

I went into the living room, sat down on the sofa, reached the remote, and turned the TV on. The screen blossomed into Technicolor life, revealing a glossy, daytime soap opera. I instantly started flicking through the channels, stopping when I reached MTV.

MTV never ceased to amaze me with its weirdness, and the music video that was playing on this occasion was no exception. It featured, among other things, dancing ninjas, leather encased teddy boys, and youths who pranced about artistically in underpants. Incredibly, all of these elements were packed into a film that was barely five minutes long. After a few minutes of intermittent strangeness, the camera pulled back to reveal a group of demon-eyed, slick-haired choir boys. They chanted the chorus and, for no apparent reason, one of them swooped across the screen towards the poofy-haired singer. Her lack of reaction suggested she saw flying choirboys all the time. At that point I changed the channel. I had concluded that my life was disturbed enough as it was.

After getting through four dozen channels' worth of heavy weight wrestling, celebrity endorsed product pitches and tacky looking advertisements I found a channel that was showing a black-and-white movie. A young woman in an elegant gown was traveling through a moodily lit corridor. She wasn't walking, she was gliding. Long, billowy curtains blew towards her slowly, swiping the skirt of her dress as she passed them. She eventually reached a door that spoke to her in an obscure whisper; the door was lit by a candelabrum held by a human hand. What should have been weird and frightening was beautiful, mesmerizing even. I had never seen such a convincing visualization of a fantasy.

I was fascinated, and watched the film all the way to the end. It was a version Beauty and the Beast, I think it was French but I wasn't paying close enough attention to tell for sure; I was too busy gawping at the beautiful images the television paraded in front of my eyes.

I felt irrationally sad when it ended. The beautiful film was succeeded by a dull, sepia tinged western. I turned the television off quickly, preventing it from depressing me.

I slipped down the sofa, folding my legs up and resting my head. I stared at the back of the sofa intently, but it blurred quickly. Without intending to, I fell asleep.

When I became aware again, I was in a dark corridor. I had no control over my body; it moved independently from my desires. I looked around me; there were windows to my left and a huge, sepia-toned desert outside them. The desert cast a mild golden light on the corridor, manipulating the coloring of my light pink nightgown until it looked orange. I was pleased; I hated pink with an intense passion.

A skin bitingly cold breeze came from ahead of me and forced my hair back over my shoulders. Goose pimples formed on my inadequately-covered legs and I shuddered as I moved.

An open door was in front of me, and the world it contained completely white.

Two human arms were mounted on the wall, not like in the movie, there had only been one of them in the movie. There was one on either side of the door and neither lit the corridor. I stopped just short the door, and looked through it onto a terrifyingly vast, angular landscape. Flakes of snow were blown through the door, and a few of them settled on my naked feet, making me shiver. I didn't want to go through the door but, before I could turn away, the mounted arms came to life and pushed me forward, making me stumble clumsily into the snow. When I looked back, the door had gone.

The white, icy landscape filled my vision. Submitting to instinct, I gasped and wrapped my arms around my torso, hopping from my right foot to my left in an attempt to generate some heat. The cold was so intense I was hardly able to register it. I was very close to feeling overheated rather than freezing; the cold bewildered me.

I was certain I was going to freeze to death. I would be trapped in ice like an insect in a block of amber, preserved in the first bloom of my youth forever. I wasn't sure whether that was appealing or not, but knew I didn't want to die. I had things I needed to do: going to college, and getting married, and having kids. You know the sorts of things I mean.

Suddenly, my back was enveloped by a thickly woven cloak, and warmth flushed through my body. Two arms wrapped themselves around my waist, and heaved me up until my feet were on the ground. My labored breaths settled, my stiff limbs relaxed and the shivers that had wracked my body subsided. Warmth spread through me, and I smiled deliriously.

I craned my head back to look at the person who held me. He wore a hood, so most of his face was obscured. However, he looked quite kind and I forced myself to produce a smile. "Thank you."

He smiled back and spoke in a soft, refined voice "Are you warm now?" His tone was one of touching sincerity.

Before I could answer him, he turned me around. He didn't give a reason. I think he wanted to see more of me.

"Yes, I am. I feel much better." I smiled again to try and alleviate his fears. After answering him, I looked around me. To my surprise the snow had started to melt; the landscape was thawing. "Where are we?"

"That is none of your concern, dear." Upon hearing his endearment, I returned my full attention to the stranger's face. "All that matters is that you are safe. Do you believe me?" He renewed his smile. It was impossible to doubt him; he possessed the careful, precise authority of a well-loved television personality.

I nodded. "Don't worry, I trust you." I moved closer to him, resting my head against his shoulder and closing my eyes. He resisted at first and drew away slightly, I think he was perplexed. To my relief, he reconsidered quickly and welcomed my proximity, angling his head so he could kiss my brow. One of his hands moved from my waist to caress my frost-stiffened hair, ridding it of its tangles ruthlessly. His fingers snagged every few seconds, making me cringe. It took a lot of effort not to whimper, but I decided it was worth it; I didn't want to risk offending the man who had saved my life.

A strong scent pervaded the air, and I sniffed, detecting the stink of leather. I glanced down at the hand that was set around my waist and realized that the smell came from his gloves.

For some reason, I didn't like the fact he was wearing gloves. His kisses and caresses began to make me feel uncomfortable and I drew away, forcing him to remove his hand from my hair and straighten his neck. We only stood about a foot apart because one of his hands remained on my waist, but the distance had might as well have been measured in miles. I was faced with a condemning stare, and stuttered out an apology: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, really I didn't. I'm grateful. Ever so grateful."

"If you are so very grateful, why do you reject me?" He sounded harsh and bitter, and squeezed the side of my waist painfully as he spoke. "Would you like me to take my cloak from your shoulders?" He used his spare hand to grab the cloak that was wrapped around me, pulling it suddenly and forcing me to grapple with it to stop it falling to the ground. "Would you like me to leave you here to freeze?"

"No, no!" I panicked, shaking my head wildly before I attempted to placate him. "You don't understand! Please, I am grateful, I'm telling the truth. I just don't know who you are. I could swear I've seen you before. What is your name? I'd feel happier if I knew your name."

"My name is irrelevant. I am what I am. My name would mean nothing to you; you do not know me. What about your name, _dear_? Can you even remember it?"

I pursed my lips and wracked my brain for an answer. Nothing was forthcoming, and I was forced to resign myself to the fact I was stupid. I didn't even know my own name. "No; I can't." I admitted my inadequacy quietly.

"Do you see now? Names are unimportant, they are unnecessary. Now, be still and let me kiss you." He leaned forward, and brushed his soft, warm lips against my cheek. He paused besides me, and I felt his body quake. The thing that disturbed me most was the fact he failed take advantage of my silence. He did not deploy the intrusive kiss my body anticipated; instead he teased me by pretending he was about to.

He exercised inhuman restraint over his actions, and his restraint made me uneasy. I wondered what he looked like beneath his hood. Was he horribly scarred? Deformed? A monster? I didn't like the idea of being loved by a monster. I was pretty and young; I deserved better than that.

He scattered kisses over my throat, completely absorbed by his actions. I tentatively moved my hands towards his head, gripping his hood delicately and pulling it back, baring his face.

I recognized him instantly. He was the Goblin King: a terrible, wicked monster. He kidnapped infants and consumed the hearts of gullible young girls. His face was not that of a monster; indeed it could have been said to be handsome if the norms of male beauty were overlooked. Nonetheless I knew he was wicked; his beguiling face had no bearing on his character.

Almost without thinking, I stomped on his foot. He momentarily lost his grip on my waist and I spun around and ran.

The first thing I realized was how warm it had become, I felt pleasantly hot and the flakes of ice that had clogged my hair melted into tiny streams of water that trickled down the back of my neck. The landscape stretched ahead of me, it had been stripped of snow and was vast and bright. Vividly green grass tickled my ankles and pink-tipped flowers sprung up around me as I progressed. Above me, the sky was pastel blue and the sun was a blinding buttercup yellow. I felt like I had somehow stumbled into a crude child's painting; the whole landscape was luridly colorful.

I shook my head briskly and told myself to stop being so serious: I was in a dream, the logic of the real world was completely irrelevant

Although I knew who the stranger was, I could still not remember my own name and, despite what he had said, I longed for it. I had no idea who I was and that feeling was immensely unsettling. I knew people were supposed to have names; important things like families, memories and personalities were attached to them. I felt lost without mine.

I felt alone.

Sweat started forming on my face and I slowed down, panting. Forcing myself to lift my gaze and squint ahead I saw that most of the grass had gone. When I looked closely at the few green blades that remained, I realized the grass was dying; the individual shoots turned brown and shriveled up just before disintegrating into ash. For a few moments the whole landscape was black with ash, but it was soon all dispersed into the air by a strong, scathingly hot wind. Every trace of life had been smothered by the heat; the meadow had disappeared and a dry, barren desert stood in its place.

I paused, and shrugged the cloak off my shoulders, luxuriating in the brief relief before the asphyxiating heat set in again. I continued to move forward, but every step was laborious. I gasped for breath and untied the cord of my bathrobe with quivering fingers, discarding it onto the sand. My exposed skin started to burn and I whimpered quietly, suffering as I staggered along.

I wept to try and alleviate the sore heat that tortured my face, but my tears were warm and burned trails down my cheeks. Sobbing, I fell onto my knees only to shriek when they slammed against the flame-hot sand. I was sure my skin would scar, and was too afraid to lift my legs and look at them. I visualized them in my head, and they looked repulsive. All raw and bloody.

Unable to support the top half of my body, I fell onto the ground. My face contorted in agony, and I had to suppress tears when I felt the sand singe my hair. "I'm sorry." My apology emerged as a throaty gasp. "Whatever I did, I'm sorry. Help me, please. Help me."

I wasn't humored with a reply. No one arrived to rescue me and my throat dried up. A heavy, hot wind brewed in the air, and sent a few stray grains of sand through my parted lips. I was too exhausted to react, I knew choking would be too painful.

I was half-dead from thirst when arms finally grasped my waist, and I was heaved me into a sitting position. "You are such a silly little girl. Look at you, poor thing, you are burnt and sore." He reached a naked hand to my cheek, stroking it gently. His flesh was enviably cold and I managed to move one of my hands on top of his, pressing it down so he couldn't draw it away. As if to spite me, he tried to pull back.

I clutched it desperately, twisting my fingers around his to stop him reclaiming his hand. "Don't go," I begged. "Please, I think I'll die if I'm left here. I don't want to die, not here. This place is horrible; it's like hell. It's just like hell." Terror solidified my surroundings. My suffering felt real, not like the remote, ill defined pain you generally get in dreams. I couldn't bring myself to accept that I would dream of such horrible pain.

"I am not going to leave you. Calm down. I need my hand."

"But_ I_ need it."

"Now, don't be obstinate." He tugged at it again, but I refused to let it go.

"But I hurt," I whined. "I'll hurt even more if you take your hand away."

"You must be brave. Forget the pain and you will no longer feel it. I promise you."

"I'll try." Sulkily, I submitted and allowed him to remove his hand. I shut my eyes and tried not to think as the heat returned to my face. Despite my efforts, I eventually cried out in pain and he moved a finger to the centre of my sun burnt lips to silence me. As I waited, whimpering, the heat started to dissipate. It was eventually replaced by a cool, mild breeze that toyed with my hair, softening it slightly. The wind was deliciously cool and I smiled hazily as it fanned my face.

"Drink, dear." I opened my eyes and saw that he was holding a drink to my lips. I accepted his offer of drink eagerly, parting my lips and tipping my head backwards to aid him. I half-opened my eyes and looked at him as I drank, he smiled, watching my bobbing throat intently.

When the last drop had gone, he removed the drink from my lips. "Good girl," he cooed. "Do you feel better now?"

"Much better."

He did not reply but instead chastely allowed his lips to feel the stringy hairs that lined my head. I was surprised; his kiss failed to make me feel uncomfortable. His kiss was not sordid; it was gentle and restrained.

I allowed him to kiss me, and looked out my surroundings. Blades of grass and small, red flowers had sprouted up out of the earth, and the sun was a cool shade of yellow again, not the swollen red it had been before. The colors of the landscape weren't as obnoxious as they had been previously, instead they were subtle and naturalistic. They did not offend my eyes, rather they delighted them.

"Would you like me to tell you a story?"

"What's the story about?"

"It's a fairytale."

"Do tell it to me, then. I love fairytales. What's this one about?"

"A beautiful young princess."

I smiled nostalgically, teasing him gently "Most of them are!"

"I know that, dear. Now, this princess was treated poorly by her family. She was expected to do all the chores, for her greedy parents refused to employ servants. And do you know what was worse? She was forced to care for a child that was not her own."

"They didn't even pay her for it?"

"No, they did not."

"That's mean."

"I agree. Hush, the tale will never be told if you continue gabbling. Now, because the girl was beautiful, she possessed an admirer. A handsome, thoughtful, powerful man who was prepared to give her anything if she would come away with him. He was prepared to deliver her from a life of drudgery and boredom; he wanted to give her everything she had lacked."

"She said yes, didn't she?"

"No. The girl turned him down. Do you think she was a fool?"

"Yes, a complete fool. What happened next? He didn't give up, did he?"

"Of course not. Her admirer was persistent, and attempted to win the girls affection again. Do you know who the girl is yet? Can you see her in your mind?"

"Describe her to me, and I'll try and picture her." There was a lapse in our conversation. He didn't seem to like the question. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Can't you just make something up?" He did not reply, and my head back to look at him.

He looked distraught. I think he wanted to say something, but he could not. He was incapable of speech. He glanced in my direction and realized that I was gazing at him. Very slowly, he raised his hands to my face and trapped it between them. He did not squeeze, he simply ensured my face was immobile. "Don't you understand? It's you. The girl is _you_." His hands shook besides my cheeks, and I got the impression he desperately wanted to shake me.

"Me? But, but –" I sounded like a faulty record "Is that why you were so angry with me before?"

"Yes, yes it is."

"I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, I'm sure I didn't. How old am I? No, sorry, I mean how old was I when you first offered to save me? I was probably immature. I probably didn't understand that you were trying to help me."

"You were fifteen."

"Fifteen's pretty young. I – I'm sure it was just that I didn't understand. It's got to be that. I'm so sorry. I hurt you really badly, didn't I?"

He lifted his head, and gazed sorrowfully at the meadow, mimicking the ennobling manner of a Byronic hero. "Yes, dear. You did." As he spoke, his hands moved from my cheeks to my neck. They hovered besides it for a few moments, but he jerked them away before they could touch me. He followed his actions up, speaking in a distinctly flat, expressionless voice "That is how much you hurt me, dear. That is the reaction you inspire in me."

I had no idea what to say. The fact he was threatening me was lost, overwhelmed by tides of pity and self-loathing. In the end, I simply managed: "I'm sorry. Really I am." I twisted my body around and embraced him, placing my head against his heart and weeping. I was a monster. I had destroyed a good man's heart. He, of course, was good by virtue of the fact he had been prepared to save me. That he kidnapped infants and sustained himself on the dripping hearts of doe-eyed girls was beside the point.

I was filled with intense joy when he set his arms around me in return; speaking to me in a soothing, gentle murmur that thrilled my heart. "Do not cry; there is not a sight I loathe more. Tears ruin your beauty; stop them, stop them."

"I'll try." I sniffed loudly and uncouthly, and recovered a hand from his back to hastily rub my fat, salty tears into my face.

"I am prepared to forgive you, my darling. I will forgive you everything."

"What do I need to do?"

"You need to be a good girl, Sarah, my darling Sarah," His voice oozed admiration. "You need to do as I say and return with me willingly. Reject your titles, abandon pretension and submit to my authority. That is all you need do. It is so simple. Everything will be all right again when you obey me; there will be no more hatred, no more anger. I promise you."

Sarah. He had said my name. I was called Sarah. That interested me far more than his manifesto for redemption. I liked the name Sarah. It was a pretty name. It suited me.

"Sarah? You are not listening, you silly thing. Answer me." I didn't like his tone. I got the impression he was patronizing me.

He had mentioned titles. Was I princess? Was I a beautiful, proud princess who had rejected a kind, devoted suitor? That didn't seem like Sarah. Although Sarah was a pretty name, it was plain and common. It seemed far more plausible that Sarah was simply a girl who _wanted _to be a princess.

I had visions of myself wading through grass in a white, cotton dress. I clutched a small red book in one of my hands and was reciting from it aloud. I glanced up briefly from the page, and saw a red head in a shoulder padded power suit speaking into a colossal black brick.

I wasn't a princess. I was Sarah Katherine Williams. Born 1970 A.D. Beloved daughter of Robert and Linda. Reluctant relative of Irene and Toby. Fifteen year old highschooler.

And I had been crying into the chest of the man who had kicked one of my best friends in the stomach and found it funny. I had been wallowing in self-deprecating pity for the person who had kidnapped my brother.

I slowly started drawing back, withdrawing my hands from his back and putting distance between our bodies. I tried to be careful, but he realized what I was trying to do almost instantly. "What are you doing?" He asked the question accusingly, glaring at me. "Have you decided you do not want me anymore?"

"I never wanted you. You've been lying to me! You tried to make me forget who I am, and who you are. Let me go!"

"No!" He sounded like an ill-tempered child and selfishly tightened his grip on me.

"Stop it!" I cried, attempting to pry his hands from my waist with my fingers. "Stop it!"

My efforts yielded no results, and I became desperate. I pummeled his chest with my fists to hurt him and, to put distance between us, pulled my upper body back so far blood began rushing to my brain. He remained unperturbed, and failed to relax his grip.

"You are not leaving, Sarah. Admit you were wrong. Tell the truth; admit you didn't win."

"But I _did_ win. If I said I hadn't won, I wouldn't be telling the truth, I'd be lying!"

"You are so_ proud_, you do not understand. You are an ignorant, mindless _child_." He snarled the last word; I had never heard such a bitter voice.

I expected his words to be accompanied by a slap and turned my head away in expectation, but soon remembered how his hands had hovered around my neck. If he were to murder me, that was how I would die. He would choke me. He sounded angry enough to act on his whim, and I'm sure I would not have cried out if he set my hands around my throat. I would have forced myself to look calm and serene, just to spite him.

I returned my gaze to him, and I was taken aback by the tenderness of his look. "Sarah." His utterance of my name sounded desperate; I might even say pathetic. Even though I was fully aware of who he was and what he had done, I felt a pang of pity for him.

But the pity I felt for him was not great enough to overwhelm my desire to get away from him. "Please let me go, please. I'm scared." The pressure on my waist was removed, I looked down was intensely relieved when I saw that his hands had gone. He had set me free.

I scrambled to my feet and moved away from him. He straightened his own body out far more elegantly than I had mine, rising easily off the ground and walking slowly in my direction. I backed away hastily.

"No, stop! Don't come near me."

He didn't listen, continuing to advance at exactly the same speed as before "I have released you for now because I have pitied you for the time being. Nothing more."

I shook my head solemnly, studying him with a grave stare. "I will never let you touch me again, ever. Besides, you haven't really touched me, because this is a dream."

The ground started to shake, the tremors distant at first but rapidly increasing in strength. Fat drops of rain started to fill the sky, descending rapidly and glossing my hair.

The rain affected him as well and plastered his long, pale hair to his skull, making his face look gaunt and thin. However, he held his balance far more gracefully than me. Whereas I threw my arms into the air and was windmilling them wildly like an ailing bird, he walked over the shuddering ground as if it were stable. He surveyed my clumsy attempts to stay upright with an amused stare.

I gritted my teeth and focused on keeping myself from being thrown by a sudden, sickening lurch of the ground.

Over the clamor of the earth, I heard him roar with laughter. I began to shout, "I'm glad this amuses –" but was unable to finish my sentence. The earth I had been standing on subsided and I fell into a newly formed pit with a shriek.

I was on my knees, and had managed to hurt my arm. I whimpered, slowly moving onto my side, nursing my damaged arm. The earth continued to shake and rain moistened the ground of the ditch I had fallen into, muddying my body.

I glanced up and saw that the Goblin King was standing by the edge of the pit, surveying me grimly from above. "I can help you, Sarah," he said, his soft voice somehow carrying over the incessant sound of the rain. "I can save you."

I shook my head mutely, pressing my face into the moist, muddy ground.

"If you refuse me, your life will be miserable."

"I don't care," I muttered my reply, holding my eyes shut as tightly as I could.

"Very well. Goodbye. I hope the fall doesn't distress you too much."

I was about to ask him what he was talking about, a tremendous, ear-splitting roar interrupted. The earth heaved and tossed my body high into the air. My eyes flashed open, and I saw a pitch-black sky split by a jagged line of light. Thunder cracked in the distance a few seconds later, and I fell.

I fell, but there was nowhere for me to land because the earth and everything it had contained had disappeared. I plummeted through an endless, black space, wheeling my arms and peddling my legs in a futile effort to gain control of my body.

I fell for empty, black miles. The descent exhausted me and I only stopped falling when I closed my eyes and remembered what I had come dangerously close to forgetting – I was in a dream.

……

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In this chapter, I'm referring to several things:

Music Video: Total Eclipse of the Heart by Bonnie Tyler (which I do NOT own). Check it out. It's even weirder than what I make it seem.

The film: _La Belle et la Bete_, directed by Jean Cocteau (which I do NOT own). Check it out. It's even more beautiful than what I make it out to be.

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!


	5. Memento

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the poem I have quoted from at the beginning of this chapter.**

**Tragic, isn't it?**

Chapter Five: Memento 

_Like one that on a lonesome road_

_Doth walk in fear and dread,_

_And having once turned round walks on,_

_And turns no more his head;_

_Because he knows a frightful fiend_

_Doth close behind him tread._

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

When I woke up, I heard a scream.

I was in the dark, and was convinced I hadn't left my nightmare. I was still surrounded by loud noises and cold air; nothing significant had changed. I thrashed about on the sofa, desperately trying to slow my imagined fall as Irene begged me to stop. Her voice was urgent and shrill and when I first heard it I confused her cries with my own. She intensified my distress, making me plead more loudly for rescue.

When I finally realized the frantic voice belonged to Irene, my sight came back to me. The first thing I saw was that the flickering light bulb above me; the ceiling alternated between being shadowy and dazzling bright. I quickly turned my gaze to the window and saw that the sky outside was unnaturally dark; I cowered away from it. A bitterly cold wind entered the room through the open window, producing a thin whistling sound. I shivered and rubbed my arms, looking at my body intently to avoid having to look at anything else.

The room was full of frightening noises: I sobbed in fright, Irene continued to shriek at me and Toby howled miserably in the hall. I clamped my hands over my ears, desperate to make it all _stop._

Eventually, I started to decipher Irene's words; "Sarah! Sarah!" She cried, sounding on the verge of tears. "What's going on? What's wrong? Stop it, stop it! You're scaring me!" My stiff body shuddered violently, and Irene desperately attempted to calm me down. I was vaguely surprised my ice queen of a stepmother was scared of me, and did nothing to alleviate her fear.

I had been staring fixedly at my folded knees, but now slowly turned my eyes to Irene. She drew away from me slightly, looking disturbed. I knew I looked terrifying; tears were smeared across my face and my teeth chattered uncontrollably. When I spoke, I produced a fragmented whisper. "Keep him away. Keep me safe, please. Protect me."

Tears gathered in my eyes, and for the first time in my life I threw my arms around my stepmother, clinging to her. I buried my head into her shoulder, dampening her vividly colored, satin top with my tears. Gradually, my labored sobs were displaced by shallow breaths and quiet sniffling.

Irene was not as worried as she had been – rather, she was bemused by my behavior. She patted me on the back, but the movement was stiff and restrained. When I recovered enough to look away from her shoulder, I saw that she had tilted her head up to preserve her flawless make-up and hairspray-scented coiffure.

"There, there," she soothed. "Everything will be just fine." At this point, I began detaching myself from her, mildly repulsed by the fact I had treated her like my mother. "You okay now?" She asked, making her mouth smile at me. The sight of her gleaming white teeth failed to charm me and I turned away from her, gazing out of the window again. The sky was not quite as dark as it had been, although it was still swollen with massy gray clouds. As I gazed at it, Irene muttered to herself "How could he have not told me things were this bad. . . ."

I interrupted her, asking, "How – how long?" I didn't look at her, instead I continued to focus on the window. I don't know what I was waiting for; maybe I expected an ominous looking bird to fly past.

"What?" Irene, who had been staring anxiously in the direction of my wailing brother, virtually barked her reply. Her tone gave the impression I had just insulted her mother.

"How long have I been here, like this? I . . . I fell asleep, and then I had a nightmare, a horrible nightmare!" I sounded hysterical, but realized quickly, biting my lower lip in an effort to restrain myself.

"I came in just now. I don't know, a minute ago maybe? You were just on the sofa and you were talking, sleep-talking." I must have reacted badly, because Irene huffed in exasperation. "Sarah, look, it was only a dream; it can't possibly hurt you. Have you calmed down yet?"

I ignored her. "Irene, what did I say?" To my immense frustration, Irene moved away from me and calmly walked into the hall. I got up too, following her despite my quivering legs. She lifted Toby out of his stroller and carried him into the kitchen, tottering on the linoleum in her ridiculous, scarlet stilettos. Toby continued to screech, failing to respond when Irene joggled him up and down in her arms and begged him to be quiet in her sweetest, most manipulative voice. Toby finally calmed down when Irene passed him a small, sugar encrusted biscuit. At this point, I lost the small amount of patience I had had to begin with and shouted at her, "Irene!"

Much to my relief, she finally acknowledged my question. She answered me as she maneuvered Toby into his high chair. "Oh, I don't know. You said sorry a lot, said that you were a bad girl -- strange things like that." She moved to another part of the kitchen, yanked a drawer out and started rummaging nosily through its contents. "To be honest, I was more bothered by the fact you were sweating like a pig and shrieking." She smiled triumphantly as she fished a thermometer out of the draw, and shooed me back where I had came from. "Back into the living room. I need to take you temperature."

I shuffled back towards the sofa obediently, falling on it with a dull thud. Irene sat besides me, brandishing the thermometer. "Say 'ah.'"

I _ahhed_ like a good girl, opening my mouth and allowing Irene to push the thermometer underneath my tongue.

During the wait, I worried. The fact I had talked in my sleep only made me more convinced that what had happened to me had been, to an extent, real. Frowning, I wondered what would have happened if I had obeyed him, if I had said the words he told me to say. As I mulled over my thoughts, my forehead throbbed. I felt cold, almost as cold as I had felt when it was covered with snow in my dream.

Irene plucked the thermometer out of my mouth, and as soon as she looked at it she gasped, staring at me in horror. "Dear God! A hundred and four? You're on fire, Sarah! You must feel terrible!"

Despite her distress, I did not feel afraid or concerned. My senses had started to fade, and I released a lengthy yawn. I hadn't realized how tired I had felt. "I'm not that bad" I replied in a vague voice. "I'm just cold, cold and a little bit scared." My head felt bloated and unwieldy, my body could hardly support it. I decided to relieve my body of its burden and slipped down the sofa, resting my head on the arm of the sofa and considerately folding my knees to keep my feet off Irene's lap. She looked alarmed and I smiled at her feebly in an attempt to reassure her. "Don't worry," I whispered "I'm sure everything will be all right. Everything will be all right." Irene's face tightened, and she rose from her seat.

"I'm calling the doctor." She informed me of her intention bluntly, heading towards the hall. Realizing my reassurances were ineffectual made me feel a little bit sad, and the smile left my mouth.

I didn't like being alone, and panicked slightly in my sleepy, fading way. "Irene!" Although I intended to shout, my voice was hardly louder than a whisper. I knew she couldn't hear me, but addressed her anyway. "Leave the light on. Please, I don't like the dark. I hate the dark, I hate it. It's horrible."

She didn't hear me. Instead, I heard her talk to the telephone.

"Hello? Is this the hospital? . . . Oh, okay . . . Look, I need to talk to a doctor right away. My daughter's sick, she's really bad . . .Williams, Sarah Williams . . . No, Williams. There is an 's' at the end . . . For the love of God. W-I-L-L-I-A-M-S. Are you deaf? . . . Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean any offense it's just that you have to understand this is urgent! She's burning up; she's babbling like a lunatic and has a fever of a hundred and four . . ."

Her voice trailed off, and as my eyelids closed. Just before I fell to sleep, I heard Irene speak to me. She told me not to go to sleep, but I did. I couldn't help it.

I dreamed of darkness.

When I woke up again, I felt calm. My breaths were quick and labored to begin with, but it did not take them long to slow down. I sat up, and smiled joyfully when I realized I was in my room. I was surrounded by familiar things. My revered _CATS_ poster was tacked securely to my wall, my dolls and teddy bears were in their places, and the long branches of the aging oak tree I had loved climbing when I was small could be seen through my window.

Everything was fine.

There were no doctors around my bed, nor any shrill, female voice. I remembered both things vaguely, and was glad they were absent.

I pressed my hand against my forehead, and was relieved to find it felt normal. The fever had gone.

Then again, had I even had a fever? All I had was vague impressions of an inflamed face and a cold body, somehow, the memories were exaggerated and vague simultaneously. I doubted they were memories at all.

With a silly little laugh, I dismissed all my recent experiences as nightmares. They all seemed too bizarre, too silly to be even remotely real. My memories of wishing Toby away, the Labyrinth, the two-way mirror and the horrible dream were nonsense. I laughed all of them into oblivion.

I got out of bed, and was soon trotting about my room in my pajamas, stretching to rejuvenate my stiff limbs. When I felt fully awake, I picked my hairbrush up from the dresser and dragged it through my tangled hair, cringing when it snagged. I wrinkled my nose in distaste when I detected a faint medicinal smell in the air. I remedied the situation by opening a window and spraying the air with scent I found on my vanity; I didn't pause to wonder why the smell had been there to begin with.

I returned to my dresser, looking at myself in my mirror. I looked perfectly well, my face was a healthy shade of pink and the skin around my eyes was clear and unlined. I pulled faces to reassure myself I hadn't changed. I frustrated myself sometimes with my childishness, but was also hopelessly vain. I knew I was pretty and felt offended if the people around me failed to notice. Absentmindedly, I pulled open a drawer and retrieved my bright red lipstick. Just before I could apply it, the door to my room burst open.

The intruder was Irene. From her, I learned I had been in hospital. I had had a dreadful fever, and was bathed in a cold sweat for three days. She and father had been terrified. I had swum in and out of consciousness, but to everyone relief I pulled through; the fever had lifted and I was allowed to go home to complete my recovery.

Irene told me what a mystery my illness had been, explaining that the doctor had struggled to offer a diagnosis. As she spoke, she took my temperature and grabbed my limp hand, squeezing it so hard it ached.

I closed my eyes as she spoke. I didn't want to face the truth; I didn't want to accept that my strange, heightened nightmares had been real.

Irene gabbled on, complaining about the maddening inadequacy of the doctors at the hospital. I was very close to telling her not to blame them, but kept my mouth shut. She wasn't capable of believing the true cause of my sickness.

…

…

…

I visited the attic many times after I had recovered enough not to stumble when I walked. I found a quiet, uncluttered corner which I filled with boxes of my old toys. Tatty teddy bears. Beloved china dolls. Board games. Picture books. All of them were boxed up and put out of easy reach. I even gave my lovingly put together costumes to charity; as I handed them over the counter I yearned to take them back.

I purged my room of every childish thing I found. As far as I was concerned, toys, games, and stories were dangerous. My childishness had been my problem, and I believed abandoning my childish things would save me. Poor naïve me.

Once every mark of the old, immature Sarah had been banished to the attic, I reformed myself, becoming a normal, inoffensively-rebellious girl. I brought posters of rock stars and teen idols to stick to my wall, listening to their music on the radio and renting their films. I soon knew all about Bon Jovi and dutifully purchased their singles, playing them at full volume in my room. Tom Cruise's dully handsome face swiftly became familiar, Irene poked her head through the doorway when I was watching one of his movies, sweetly asking if I would like a snack. She was thrilled by my efforts; her step-daughter was finally displaying telltale signs of normality.

Although I had changed, I continued to feel anxious about my past. At one point, I considered taking Lancelot off Toby. One night when I was babysitting, I went into his room while he was downstairs in his playpen. I thought taking Lancelot would be easier if he was away from Toby, but I was wrong. I reached my hand out to grab Lancelot, but stopped myself before I could touch him. I rushed out of the room and downstairs where I played boisterously with Toby to forget what I had been about to do.

To complete my transformation, I removed every trace of my mother from my room. I had spent years putting together a scrapbook that recorded her triumphs. The earliest clipping was dated 1976, the most recent 1984. She had sunk into obscurity since then; my mother and Jeremy had accumulated enough money to spend most of their time shuttling leisurely between Manhattan, London and Berlin. They spent their money and their time on cutting-edge clothes and obscenely expensive restaurants. They occasionally did obscure plays that had short runs, but that was it. They had stopped caring about their craft, and _Variety_ and_ Playbill _had consequently stopped caring about them.

Nonetheless I had continued to adore and admire her. I had loved my mother. I had loved her success and the fact a beautiful, intelligent man had fallen madly in love with her. I had gazed obsessively at the clippings in my scrapbook for hours, cooing over my darling mother's beauty and success, occasionally feeling off-putting twinges of sadness and jealousy as I stared at her.

She was practically a mythic figure for me throughout my childhood. Even when I went to see Mom and Jeremy when they were in Manhattan in 1983, I spent most of the visit gawping at my mom. She took me into a huge department store and told me I could choose a toy, any toy, and she would buy it for me. I was ecstatic, and thanked her repeatedly as she paid for a smiley-mouthed china doll. Later, when we got back to our hotel, I thanked her again and buried my face into her chest, relishing the strange, exciting smell of her generously perfumed body.

That was the last time I saw her in the flesh. She couldn't find time for me after that. I was sad, of course, but coped, sustaining myself on the articles about her I had collected over the years. I laughed at the anecdotes she had related to journalists, and liked to pretend that she was laughing and joking with me.

Daddy, on the rare, troubling occasions he had spoken about mother, was always bitter. He ranted about her tricks, her ploys for attention, and her immaturity. He never had a kind word for her, and his complaints about her character pierced me like needles. I was aware she hadn't done a very nice thing by leaving us, but I didn't care. I wanted to defend her, but knew that would hurt my poor, heartbroken Daddy even more and so said nothing and tried to forget who he was speaking about when he insulted my mother.

When I was older, I realized I was quite like my mom. I lied frequently, was quite crafty when it came to getting my own way, and refused point blank to grow up. I adopted these elements of her character subconsciously but when I realized I was acting just like my mother I felt proud. I convinced myself she would be pleased with me, and started to emulate her in everything. I decided I wanted to be an actress. I decided lean, blond haired, British men were incredibly attractive. I even decided that I despised dull, unimaginative people because my mother talked scornfully about such people in her interviews. She always deployed the same adjectives when describing boring people; contrasting herself to such inferiors was how she petted her ego.

That was all before. After my dream, I told myself sternly that I had been wrong to adore her, wrong to try and evoke her. I found every photo of her I owned, every postcard I had received from her and put them into a box along with the scrapbook.

When I put it away in the attic, I discovered another box. It was jammed into a corner and the top of it was grey with dust; I only saw it when I swung my flashlight around. One word – 'LINDA' – was written in big, messy capitals on the side of the box; my heart skipped a beat when I saw it. I was intrigued and, despite knowing I should leave it alone, pulled it out of its corner and opened it eagerly.

I pulled out bundles of photos first of all, untying them carefully and examining them with the aid of my flashlight. Most of them featured dull, miserable-looking people I hadn't known existed. The photos were black-and-white, and most were so faded they contained shadow people, figures so indistinct and worn they were barely there.

Eventually I came across a sharp, well-preserved photo, which I inspected it carefully. It showed two people: a woman in a floral-patterned dress and a man in a plain suit that had been patched at the elbows. The woman was dark haired, and would have probably been quite beautiful if her dress hadn't been shapeless and ugly. When I looked at it more closely, I realized that the woman was holding a baby. The infant was wrapped in a large blanket, it overwhelmed the baby to the extent that it looked like the woman was simply holding a loosely bundled sheet. Neither the man nor the woman acknowledged the child. Instead, they both stared stupidly at the camera, looking cold and miserable.

I turned the photo over, and recognized a sloppy version of my mother's handwriting. She had written:

_Mother and Father with baby me. _

_Jan. 1947?_

I slipped that photo quietly into the pocket of my jeans. I had never seen my maternal grandparents before, and all I knew about them was that they had died in a car crash when Mom was a little girl. I felt sorry for them, and couldn't see any harm in holding onto a single photo of them. They didn't deserve to be forgotten along with my mother.

There were many other intriguing things in the box: a tatty book of Shakespeare's plays, a pristine copy of the Bible, a few yellowed birthday cards, a broken necklace, an old, rusted ring. And so on, and so forth. I found a few 45 records at the bottom of the box, and drew them out. I was eager to find out what my mother had listened to when she was a teenager and took them downstairs with me so I could play them. Dad and Irene were out and Toby was asleep, so I reassured myself it was safe to put them on.

The record I played was the weirdest song I have ever heard. It wasn't really a song; it was more like a recording of a solemn voiced girl saying strange, ambiguous things. It was very fragmented, I got the impression that the song had been cut up. The record player hadn't been used in a long time, and the music blared when I first started playing the record. I turned it down hastily, letting the song play quietly. It unsettled me even more when the girl singer began to whisper. I lifted the needle away before it could end.

I put the record back in its sleeve and took it back to the attic, returning them to the box and pushing it into its corner.

When Dad and Irene returned, I smiled at them guiltily. I felt like a bad girl for going through my mother's things. I felt like I had betrayed my good intentions. I kept quiet, and my silence ensured no one but me knew I had opened my mother's box.

…

…

…

I went to great lengths to ensure my safety. As soon as I was able to, I went to a somewhat crabby psychiatrist and told him all about my nightmares, how they had made me physically ill, how they had made me cry, and so on and so forth. I was redirected to a counselor, and offered the same tearful, heart-wringing complaints. To my immense satisfaction, I was put on a course of extremely potent sleeping pills. They knocked me out for eight hours straight and protected me from my imagination.

To my intense displeasure, Irene made me go back to the school. I saw no point in returning because there were only a few days left before the holidays began. Irene, however, saw things differently. As soon as I could walk without falling over, I was sent back to school. Acquaintances bothered me about my illness around five times a day, and I forced myself to their curiosity with the same brief, carefully worded answer: 'I had an infection, but I'm fine now. Thanks for asking.' I doubt gratitude has ever been expressed so indifferently.

Irene had just persuaded me to go back to school, and I was sulking quietly on the sofa when she decided to mention the day I dreaded more than any other "So, dear, what do you want to do for your birthday? I was thinking we could rent a place for you, maybe get a band in and invite your friends." She realized I was panicking, and hurriedly added "It's your sixteenth birthday, Sarah! You can't spend it at home!"

I felt trapped. Spending my sixteenth birthday at home was exactly what I had intended to do. As I had gotten older, I had learned to dread my birthdays. I spent the days leading up to them fretting about the inevitable, unsuitable gifts of clothes I was going to receive and desperately trying to persuade Irene_ not_ to throw me a party. "It's really swell of you to ask, but I'm not sure if I feel up to having a big party. I've only just started feeling well again, and I don't want to push myself. Do you know what I mean?" I played anxiously with my fingers, staring at them. Irene's face was intimidating at the best of times, and I only raised my head to look at her when the silence became unbearable.

She quite obviously did not understand what I was trying to get across, and scrutinized me as if my face had suddenly turned blue. "Okay, dear." Her voice sounded strained, more artificial than usual. "Think about it. There's still time to prepare something special, if you want it."

That was, of course, not the end of the matter. Later the same day, I overheard her talking to Dad in the kitchen, she speaking in a harsh whisper.

"The girl's strange, Robert, you can't ignore it anymore. She's sixteen next week and she doesn't even want a party! What kind of sixteen year old is that? I spent months looking forward to my sixteenth birthday. I bugged my parents about it constantly; I got them to rent the church hall as a venue and made my Dad give me money so I could buy a new dress. Hell, I invited most of the people in my year and partied until three in the morning! Now, what does Sarah want? A quiet day at home! She's so _strange_."

Dad said something about my being quiet and shy, and started mumbling ineffectually about my illness.

Irene simply sighed in exasperation and continued: "Come on, Robert – she's better now! Anyway, she's always been the same; I've never met such a 'shy' teenager! She has no friends, none at all. Have you ever seen her bring a friend home? I've never even heard her mention a name. I'm sure it's her mother's fault. The woman's shameless; she hasn't sent a birthday card in years! Her own daughter! It's no wonder Sarah doesn't want to celebrate her birthday. I reckon the poor girl thinks like this: if my precious bitch of a mother doesn't acknowledge my birthday, why should I?"

I backed away from the door, stunned, and ran upstairs. I wept into my new, baby pink pillowcase, sobbing quietly so no one would hear me.

I repeated the following mantra to myself, saying the words in my head until I stopped crying: _My mommy does love me. Irene's a liar. My mommy does love me. Irene's a liar. My mommy does love me… _

I didn't go back downstairs until it was time for dinner.

…

…

…

I reached a sort of compromise with Irene in the end. I agreed to a small party, on the condition that it was held at home.

Irene made me a cake. She and my father decorated the lounge with a cheap, obnoxiously colorful banner and a few balloons which had been bought for Toby's first birthday party. Toby failed to notice the day was different to any other and, for no particular reason, smacked me on the nose with his hand when I lifted him out of his cot in the morning.

I spent a while getting ready. A new dress had been brought for me for the occasion; it was made from red satin with and fell to my knees. It was pleasantly tight, and the sleeves came close to cutting off my circulation. I made my face up before going downstairs to greet my guests, putting an understated pink shade of lipstick on and powdering my cheeks until my freckles were obscured. I left my long, fluid hair loose, and briefly considered putting Nana's necklace on before deciding it would be too much bother. Finally prepared, I sloped downstairs.

Two people waited for me outside the front door: Alice and Thomas. They were both intensely relieved to be let inside; it was cold outside and pouring with rain. They looked like they had just escaped from a drain. I had known both of them since childhood; both of them had attached themselves, remora-like, to me in kindergarten and never plucked up the courage to abandon me. They were the people I wandered around with at school. They bored me with their dull lives and dull ways, but I tolerated them. If they were fortunate enough to catch me in a good mood, I would tell them stories about my intermittently glamorous life.

On one occasion, I told them about the time my mother's clever, well connected boyfriend had introduced me to Patti LuPone in 1980 after a performance of _Evita._ He knew I idolized her, and orchestrated the encounter as a treat. She bent down until her eyes were level with mine, shook my small, podgy hand and asked if I had enjoyed the show. I wanted to say yes, but my reply got stuck half way down my throat and I ended up glancing shyly at the floor. She laughed and got up, moving away. I remember watching her beautiful white gown trail across the floor, it was so awkward and heavy she had to stop and hoist the back of it up before she could walk on. She had joked about it to her friends, and the last thing I heard from her was her loud, boisterous laugh. Both of my friends gasped in amazement and bombarded me with questions after I offered a lengthy, mythologizing explanation of who Patti LuPone was.

My birthday was a total disaster, and its failure was a direct result of my insistence on being miserable. I felt sad for a whole variety of reasons – I'm sure I do not need to go into them. After blowing out the candles on my flawlessly-iced birthday cake, I made sure my face suggested that I was, in reality, in a graveyard, and had just scattered a handful of dirt over a coffin.

To summarize, my birthday party had a lot in common with a wake.

My birthday party might hold the record for the briefest celebration in history. My presents were opened and briefly commented on, the cake was cut and slices were nibbled in silence. I refused to have any and instead stared tearfully into space

Alice and Thomas left at the first opportunity, springing up off the sofa the instant Dad accepted that I was not going to cheer up and offered to give both of them lifts home. Irene got out of her seat almost as quickly as my friends had, seizing Dad's arm and steering him out of the room while yelling at me to put Toby to bed. Alice and Thomas were right behind them, and shouted 'bye' to me from the hall. The last thing I heard from them was the slam of the front door.

And that was the end of my sweet sixteen. I had a vague impression of guilt, aware that I was entirely responsible for the failure of my party. That, however, did not bother me much. I wandered over to Toby and lifted him out his playpen, ferrying him upstairs without listening to his sleepy babbling.

When we got to Toby's room, I rocked him for a few minutes in my arms, quietly humming _rock-a-bye-baby_ until he stopped mumbling and went limp. After tucking Toby in and kissing him gently, I retreated to my room.

I fell onto the stool in front of my dresser with an ungraceful thud. In a way, I felt happy that I was alone. I found people grating at the best of times and hated them outright when I was depressed. People – all of them: family, friends, strangers – were nuisances. People were always asking me questions, lying to me, misleading me. I didn't get that when I was alone. When alone, I occupied a blissfully uncomplicated vacuum.

I gazed at myself in the mirror for a little while; my fear of it had dimmed over the weeks. I wondered: had I changed? The make-up I wore was more restrained than usual, which meant I had ceased to look like the lovechild of a ballet dancer and a mime. My face was thinner, too; my illness had put me off my food so had lost a few pounds. However, the childish padding on my cheeks which I had hated since the advent of adolescence had somehow managed to survive. My face lacked definition; it continued to be the formless, undistinguished face of a modestly attractive young woman. That thought made me frown and a blotchy rash spread over my face; it always showed up when I was stressed.

I looked down sharply and saw a letter in the middle of the dresser, alongside my make-up and random pieces of paper. It was half hidden underneath an issue of _Vogue_, and I pulled it out hurriedly.

There was one word on the envelope; I could just decipher an elaborately rendered:

_Sarah_

The envelope was textured, the paper either very old or very expensive. There was sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had a horrible idea that I knew who the letter was from.

I opened the envelop carefully so I didn't tear it, and pulled out a neatly folded letter. It read:

_My Dearest Sarah,_

_I will begin on a positive note; happy birthday. I hope your day was as pleasant as it could have been. _

_Now, I am quite disappointed in you for it appears that you have been trying to forget me. You have busily been attempting to grow up, packing away your childish things, trying to become _normal._ You shouldn't neglect your memories of me, it makes you seem dreadfully rude. I'm tempted to say ungrateful. _

_I am winning, dear.__You have clearly been deluding yourself with regards to your position, and it is high time I clarified the truth. You are not safe; you are my prisoner just as much as your dear little friends are. You didn't know about them, did you? Oh wait, you _did_ know about Hogwart. I have him shackled to a wall now, he is a few feet away from me and is attempting to speak through his gag. He is wholly pathetic; I hope you prove to be a more rewarding responsibility._

_There is nothing left for you where you are, Sarah. __Your family does not want you; none of them will miss you. And even though I am sure your brother adores you, he is far too young to remember he ever had you. It will only take him a few months to forget._

_You are delaying the inevitable by ignoring me. It would be in everyone's best interest for you to stop playing these silly, childish games. Say my name, say my title, allude to me; I will come for you. Things can be simple, painless even, if you allow them to be. _

_Don't refuse me, dear. Doing so will only make you suffer more. _

_Yours, In Deepest Sympathy_

_His Elevated Highness, the Goblin King_

His words made me cry. Fat, fast tears fell onto the paper, making his words stream down the page. I felt devastated, but devastation quickly gave way to anger. I crushed the letter until it was a small, jagged edged ball, ran to the window and threw it outside into the rain.

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The record Sarah plays is _Past, Present, Future_ by the Shangri Las. Mid-sixties teen angst at its finest; check it out.

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!


	6. The Halls of Immortal Fame

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the poem I have quoted from at the beginning of this chapter.**

**Tragic, isn't it?**

**This is rated M for a reason, folks. Please bear that in mind.  
**

Chapter Six: The Halls of Immortal Fame

_A silence falls upon my heart_

_And hushes all its pain._

_I stretch my hands in the long grass_

_And fall to sleep again._

A Year and a Day. Elisabeth Siddal.

I couldn't really believe the letter I held. My body was framed by the window and I was completely still, unable to bring myself to move. I tried to compose myself: I sniffed back my tears, closed my eyes, took deep, soothing breaths, and told myself to disbelieve him. He was playing mind games; his letter was nothing but a cruel, vicious lie created to make me drop my guard and make a mistake.

It was only after that minute had gone that I allowed myself to shriek. Screaming felt wonderful; it allowed me to release a fraction of the maddening, frustrated anger that had made my brain throb. I had lost, I'd lost everything. No amount of effort on my part was going to make him leave me alone. He was always going to be there; the lengths I had gone to to ignore him hadn't had any effect. He had brushed my frantic efforts aside as easily as if he had been jerking back a curtain.

I cried. I handed myself over to rage and grief, and wallowed in self-indulgent spasms of distress. I threw myself onto my bed, sobbing, kicking, and screaming until my throat was raw. I thrashed about like a tortured animal, rolling onto my belly and attacking my baby pink pillow with nails and fists, pummeling it until it burst. Stuffing from the pillow flew everywhere, settling over my body and my bed in airy white clumps.

As the ejected filling from my pillow sank through the air, I forced myself to calm down. I took long, shuddering breaths that eased with the minutes, and was soon lying silently on my bed. I gazed up at the bleached splendor of my newly painted ceiling, lamenting the death of my future happiness. The Goblin King had slaughtered it; he had soaked his hands in its blood. I clenched my left hand until my nails penetrated the skin of my palm, and forced my eyelids closed to spare my tear-glazed eyes sight.

Blindness illuminated the truth for me: I was beautiful. I was doomed. I belonged in the halls of tragedy, the home of every immortal figure ever conceived. I made mournful comparison to the noblest of its heroines: tragic Juliet, unheeded Cassandra, and grief-stricken Ophelia. I liked her best.

I could visualize Ophelia effortlessly: she was being borne to her grave by the gentle flow of a sun-flecked river. Brightly colored blossoms were clutched loosely in one of her beautifully formed hands, and the fingers of the other broke through the water's surface, feebly trying to stop themselves being submerged. Her lovely ashen face was surrounded by a halo of wispy chestnut curls which bounced delicately on the surface of the water. Her face was frozen in an expression of absolute despair. Her pale, blue lips were parted slightly, but I could tell her mouth had produced a gasp, not a word. Cold, bitter grief had smothered her voice. The scene was astonishingly vivid, as if I had recently witnessed Ophelia's lonely, quiet death from the bank of the river and passed an account of it onto Shakespeare.

It didn't take long for my imagination to replace Ophelia's face with my own. I robbed Ophelia of her death, dying in her place. The river passed over me slowly, teasing my feet at first, then rising to chill my fish-netted hips before finally coiling around my bare neck. I shivered in the water, making it ripple. The river soaked my dress and my pretty, water saturated gown pulled me down. Soon, every part of me besides my face and my hands was submerged. Flowers blossoms were clutched in one of my hands; rosemary for remembrance, pansies for thoughts, and daisies for –

I didn't know what I was holding daisies for, but soon decided they didn't matter. My lovely dark hair surrounded my head like a receding shadow, my blurred red dress with its short, tight sleeves could just be made out underneath the water and my face was pure and white, as colorless as newly formed frost.

I smiled slightly as I imagined that, pleased with myself for conjuring up such a beautiful image. I, the irretrievably doomed Sarah Williams, seemed made for the role of a cold skinned, water-choked girl.

My dim smile turned into a frown when I began to feel dear Ophelia's pain. My head suddenly dipped under the surface of the water. Shocked by the cold, I opened my mouth to cry out for help. Water surged through my lips, pouring into me uncontrollably and filling my lungs until I was convinced they were going to burst. My eyes opened at the same time, and I gazed hazily at my grave. The water was murky and I could only make out some long, tangled weeds ahead of me. It was a dim, dirty place to die in. I soon decided I didn't like thinking about my death, so closed my eyes to forget it. I sunk gracefully through the dark water; my bloated body didn't drag me down. Happily, I was thoroughly dead by the time my naked feet were obscured by the smoky mud of the riverbed.

That thought comforted me. Poor Ophelia hadn't felt any pain so I, were I to drown, wouldn't either.

I stretched leisurely, like a sunbathing cat, allowing my senses to dim. I forgot all about the tablets I had placed on the table beside my bed. My lips turned up by a fraction of an inch as I returned my thoughts to my exquisite, dead face. I was desperately beautiful. It was no wonder he wanted me.

The Goblin King had told me I was delusional and he couldn't have been more correct. My head was packed full of lies. I had spent most of my life craving recognition, hoping that people would submit to my vanity and heap me with praise and love. They never did. They never told me I was beautiful. They only said they loved me after I said I loved them. They never made things simple and nice for me, and I despised them for it. I was only ever completely content when I retreated to my imagination. I was safe there; I had complete control.

All I wanted was to be happy; I wanted happiness more than anything else and despite knowing it was wrong, I let myself fall to sleep.

I was borne away by the river.

…

…

…

I woke up to a chorus of chirping crickets and twittering birds. The sound of them was unbearably loud, it seemed to originate from inside my head. The incessant sound of the chorus echoed eerily, and I could only just make out the gentle lapping sound of the water on the sand above it.

My breaths came in labored gasps and jarred with the tranquility of my surroundings. When I inhaled, I tasted a distant sea on my tongue; when I sniffed I was overpowered by the perfume of a thousand invisible flowers. I gagged so severely I thought I was going to throw up. When I adjusted to the air, I patted the ground I was resting on, only to flinch away; my damp hand had gained a thick, gritty layer of sand the moment it touched the ground. Disgusted, I scraped the sand off on the side of my water-saturated gown. I rubbed my tired, aching eyes with my clean hand, then inclined my head downwards to look at my body.

I was wearing a fairytale princess dress which glittered like a star-clogged galaxy, blinding me with its beauty. I devoted a few seconds to the study of it. Its coloring put that of the most glorious, rose-tinted sunset to shame, the flattering, jewel-stiffened bodice pinched my waist in and the long, elaborate sleeves were cut exquisitely. If I had been given it as a little girl, I would have keeled over in ecstasy.

Its beauty was hampered slightly by the fact it was soaked. To try and dry off, I stood and shook myself vigorously like a dog. Scores of droplets flew off me but my gown refused to dry and clung to my body. I had to resort to wringing the skirt out so it didn't drag too heavily on the ground.

When I looked behind me, I saw what all of my other senses had told me was close: a river. It was large and grew progressively wider as it snaked into the distance, eventually becoming part of a sea. The river was masked by the shadows of the tall, intimidating mountains that blocked out vast sections of the skyline. The sun was setting; it made the sky golden and speckled the river with its rich, aging light.

It was stunningly beautiful. I could have watched it, entranced like a fool, for hours, digesting every aspect of its beauty. But I was disturbed by a noise. It sounded like a muted hiss, the sound had traveled such a long way, I only heard it because I was surrounded by silence. The birds had stopped singing, the crickets were quiet, and the river didn't make a sound.

Someone had wanted me to hear the sound; water didn't fall silent of its own accord. The mastermind's plan worked; I felt a flood of purpose and curiosity and removed my gaze from the river, turning and moving in the direction of the sound.

I felt confident as I abandoned the river and moved into the nearby forest. With a snort of disgust, I plucked riverweeds from my sodden hair and rubbed my arms in a futile attempt to warm them.

My walk through the woods made me realize fairytale dresses aren't as wonderful as they look. My dress had long slits down the sides and great slices of my legs were exposed. Even more irritating, the back of the skirt had retained a great deal of water and dragged along the ground, quickly becoming filthy and hampering my progress. The tight, restrictive bodice started to pain me after a few minutes of brisk walking, the base of it bit into my skin and I couldn't inhale as deeply as I needed to. I quickly became exhausted.

I stopped and leaned against a tree. I told myself not to worry: I was obviously in a dream and could take all the time I needed to recover. I could waste all of the dream time I wanted to. I felt sorry for the Goblin King; he was completely incapable of subtlety. He couldn't have made his responsibility for 'my' dream more obvious without erecting a buzzing, red sign that bore his name and a confession. I saw his touch everywhere: the spookiness of the forest, for example, was so exaggerated it was comical. The tree branches looked uncannily like withered, pock-marked arms and they shivered minutely, blatantly struggling to contain a desire to claw at me. The shadows which lurked on either side of the path I followed looked like they had escaped from an inkpot; one of them bravely darted out of the trees, engulfing one of my feet. I shrieked in surprise and kicked at it violently, making it scuttle off like a huge, shadowy crab.

And then, of course, there was my gown. It had obviously been dreamed up by someone who had no intention of testing the practicality of his creation on himself. I seethed. The Goblin King was maddeningly superficial, and heartless, and unfeeling-

These thoughts rejuvenated my desire to find him so I could give him a piece of my mind. I picked the troublesome back panel of my dress up and held it off the ground, doing so exposed my legs but I didn't care. If he had spied on me in the shower, his seeing the backs of my thighs was nothing.

I moved forward at a more urgent pace, pushing offensively-bright green tendrils out of my face and squeezing my slender body through intricate cages of tree branches. I stubbornly refused to stumble over the knotted roots of trees which made the ground lumpy and didn't cry when a thin, sharp-edged tree branch drew fine scratches across my face. My feet were bare, and I cringed mutely every time they were ripped and bashed by the path.

After a long, tiring walk, I found myself in a clearing. Although I felt drowsy, my exhaustion did nothing to dampen my determination and I surveyed it intently. For a moment, I froze. When I recovered, I drew back until I was hidden by the shadows, grabbing and squeezing hold of a branch to stop myself from acting rashly.

A pulsing, white glow dominated the center of the clearing. I needed to shield my eyes from it at first, it was so strong. I strained to determine what it was, but stopped wondering when I saw that the white light wasn't alone. It was attended by seven tiny, shuffling shadows. People.

I wasn't prepared to wait any longer, so after taking a few seconds out to reassure myself I wasn't going to be confronted by an idiot troll or a maddened dragon, I moved forward. I swung my arms boldly, marching forward in a display of brain-dead bravado.

Seven sets of bulbous eyes swiveled towards me when I was halfway to them. I forced myself not to stop, and walked on stiffly as the eyes of the figures tracked my every move.

I paused a good distance from them; I needed the distance to be brave. I held my voice steady well as I spoke; it didn't even wobble. "Who are you? Where is _he_?" I saw no reason to be specific. It was _his_ dream and he was far too narcissistic not to cast himself in the starring role.

All of them stood still, looking curious rather than surprised. "Well, aren't any of you gonna answer?" They answered me with silence. "Any of you?" There was no sound but the distant row of idiot birds.

I lost my temper. The volume of my speech escalated until I was shouting, slinging insults and glaring at the air. "Goblin King! Goblin King! You coward! You get here right now! Or –" I paused, frowning in concentration then smirking as a flash of inspiration hit me. "Or will I have to tell the world you're nothing but a cowardly old man, cowering away fearfully in your castle!"

One of the figures trotted forward instantly. When the figure stepped into a gently lit area, I saw he was a dwarf. He came up to my waist and his skin was cracked and lined – the flesh of a withered old man. He looked put upon, annoyed that I had addressed him. I was perturbed by his appearance; he was the spitting image of Hoggle. The only detail that set them apart was a short, silvery wisp of a beard. "He ain't here," said the dwarf. He glared at me, and I cringed. His similarity to Hoggle pained me, and for a brief, disquieting moment I felt like I was being a condemned by my best friend.

I overcame my anxieties to reply to him. "Well, where is he then? And don't lie! I know that this is all down to him, and I want answers!" My barrage of words didn't make me look particularly confident. Indeed, the opposite was true; I must have sounded like a frightened little kid, desperately endeavoring to prove something. My gaze drifted away from the dwarf I was talking to as I tried to straighten out my thoughts. The Goblin King's absence had thrown me off balance. I hated waiting under normal circumstances, but waiting for the arrival of my adversary made every other wait I had ever had to suffer through seem trivial. Every second made me more nervous, and my hands fondled each other anxiously throughout the silence. My eyes darted back to the dwarf the instant he responded.

"How we's s'pose to know? Yer think Jareth tells us anythin'?" He snorted derisively. His words had a ring of truth; neglecting to keep his cronies up to speed was very characteristic of the Goblin King.

It took a second for my brain to click and realize that he had referred to the Goblin King by his real name: Jareth. I remembered Hoggle mentioning it once in passing. I had barely been listening to him at the time, probably because I didn't care for the subject of his conversation. The Goblin King was a villain; his name was merely a piece of trivia.

I sharply returned my attention to the dwarf, whose eyes were set upon me with cringe-worthy intensity. By this point, I had decided that despite the eerie physical similarities they shared, the nasty, obnoxious little creature I was talking to had nothing in common with my friend. My dear, lost Hoggle. I had to snort back a deluge of snot-accompanied tears.

"If you don't know where he is . . ." I trailed off, asking myself what I wanted to know. I looked ahead of me, reminding myself of the brilliant glow and the six others who remained dark, impenetrable silhouettes. "Do you know where we are?" I said eventually. "And who the hell are you anyway, what are you even doing here? He must have told you that much." My voice buzzed with exasperation, and he looked up at me with a hideous scowl.

"I told yer, Jareth don't tell us nuthin'." The dwarf's patience was slipping; his eyes flared. It was obvious that my ignorance agitated him. He flailed his arms, gesturing vaguely around him before continuing. "An' this place? We just work here, guard that thing." He thrust a thumb in the direction of the glow before he started repeatedly beckoning to me with one of his stubby fingers, compelling me to lower my head. I bent double, and he whispered in my ear "An' I can tell you something mighty important; if anyone touches it, they die."

His voice was conspiratorial, his words chillingly genuine. I was tempted to ask what the deadly light contained, but it was obvious the Dwarf didn't know so I kept my mouth shut. I just looked at it fixedly; what he had told me only made it seem more fascinating.

My eyes slowly drifted back to my companion, and I gasped in revulsion upon seeing his big, lopsided smile. His mouth contained a set of black, decaying stubs. "Pretty, eh?" He released a long, leery cackle.

Suddenly, I was unable to put up with him any more. I had no time for pointless conversations and no wish to be subjected to more mockery. It was time to find out answers on my own. I straightened my body, took a deep breath from the repugnantly sweet air and marched in the direction of the glow.

"I wouldn't go there, if I were you. Remember what I told you." I stopped, turning my head back. The dwarf was stood behind me holding himself with a weird air of confidence; his head was held high and his cracked, antique face sneered at me.

"I don't care what you were told. The Goblin King is a liar; his threats don't mean anything." My words came out too quickly. I knew I was the liar. "There isn't any reason why I shouldn't go on." I tilted my head. I was more than a match for the dwarf; he was simply a mindless little fool who followed orders without understanding them.

"Oh, you'll see. You'll see soon enough, girly. Just keep walking." He chuckled; it was probably the most humorless laugh I have ever had the misfortune to hear.

"If you're going to speak in riddles, I don't care for anything you have to say." I turned my head away from him, flipping my hair over my shoulder and walking away. "It's not as if any of this is real. You could shoot me dead if you wanted but you know," I paused, lifting the corners of my lips, "I'd wake up in the morning." I sounded cocky but was, to tell the truth, terrified. I prayed that no one would notice I was trembling. My bare, blood-smeared feet crushed long tendrils of grass as I moved, and the dew that covered the ground soothed them, making movement slightly less painful.

I heard the sound of hurried movement – shuffling feet and strained breathing – as I went. Subdued sniggers made my face freeze and I steeled myself. The noises formed a thick web of mockery behind me, tempting me to look back and glare at my tormentors. But I did not. I kept going and was rewarded quickly -- the noises started to fade. Distance numbed me to them. Strangely, I felt safe.

I couldn't hear a single thing by the time I stopped, not even the sound of my own breathing. I froze to look in awe at the source of the light, the silence helping me focus. Although the brilliance of the light scorched my eyes, I realized I had wandered onto a small, grassy rise and that I was stood next to a glass-covered coffin.

The glow flattered the coffin perfectly, and I gazed at it rapturously. The glass top of it had been sliced into hundreds of tiny diamonds, and it shimmered constantly in the golden glow of the sun. The glass case contained the still, blurred body of a girl. She was slim, wore an elaborate white dress, and had dark, curly hair. Her light, distorted face looked touchingly serene; it made tears form in my eyes. Even though she was a stranger, I grieved for her. She was far, far too beautiful to have died, just as she was far, far too beautiful to be human. I imagined a story for her; she was an angel who had been snatched up when she flew too low. Her brutish abductor had smothered her with his large, clumsy hands before encasing her body in glass to save it from decay. Sniffling as I thought about her story, I reached my hand down and started stroking the coffin carefully with my fingers.

When I looked down, I saw another hand on the coffin. It wore a black glove and caressed the glass. I raised my eyes and saw a figure dressed entirely in black: mourning wear. I lifted my gaze up further, and looked at the stranger's face. It was an old face – not old in the sense of liver spots and wrinkles, rather his skin was sickly-pale and his cheeks were hollow, hungry looking. Thin, sad eyes were fixed on the girl's plump, bow shaped lips, and, as I in turn looked at his intensely preoccupied face, he spoke.

"I see you have chosen to join me. Well? Speak up. What have you to say, now you can see me?" The Goblin King lifted his eyes to mine. "You did want to know where I was, Sarah." He shrugged elegantly. "And here I am. Do you not have anything you want to ask me? You seemed full of questions before."

I kept my voice under control; I didn't dare to let it crack. "Have you been here, all this time?"

"You could say that, yes." His thin lips curled up, revealing pointed, dog-like teeth. I finally realized what he was referring to. Deceptive bastard. He had been right besides me all along, probably struggling not to laugh as I blindly accepted that I was in the company of seven dwarves and a heavenly corpse. He probably thought exploiting a child's fairytale was brilliantly clever. I just found it nauseating.

I tried to speak; I opened my mouth to do so but he cut me off before I was able to splutter out a syllable. "Oh, do let me guess what you say next. Now you, proud, victorious champion of the Labyrinth, will slander me, then barrage me with inane questions that do not have answers."

He paused. For a second his smile broadened, only to disappear moments later. He turned his face into a horror stricken caricature, clutching the sides of it to complete the effect. To my disgust, he made his voice waver and tremble, mimicking me with terrible skill. "What_ are _you doing? _Oh, _why are you doing this to me? You – you _monster_!" The pantomime devolved into a cackle, and fresh tears started gathering in my eyes. I dragged my wrist across my face in a frantic attempt to stop them, but worked in vain.

"Oh, my poor little Sarah. Are you crying? Such a lamentable sight! Let the whole world to see the tears of Sarah Williams, so they can see and comfort the Labyrinth's dear, fearless champion in her despair!" He suddenly stopped talking, and disappeared. I darted my head anxiously from left to right, jerking it away in instinctive revulsion when I realized he was next to me. He had lowered his head so it was a few inches away from mine, his hot, shuddering breaths periodically blasted my cheeks. "Wouldn't that be wonderful, dear?" he drawled, drawing his head away so I had an excellent view of his sneer.

He cackled at me, the male equivalent of the classic fairytale hag. I trembled in anger, and although I knew what I was going to do was dangerous, I was overpowered by a fervent desire to disturb the perfection of his pale face.

So I slapped him.

At first I thought nothing would happen; I was convinced my hand would pass through his face like it was smoke. But it didn't. My hand hit its mark, my nails even caught briefly in his skin. The strike made my palm sting.

He clutched the side of his face, and doubled over in agony. After a few seconds he raised his head slightly, training his wounded eyes upon me, seeking pity. His pain-etched features twisted in rage when he saw that I was impassive. I had no pity – not for him. His body stiffened and he straightened himself out. He stood before me, erect and terrifyingly still. He looked at me and a cold wind struck up. It scrambled my hair and lifted his long, dark cloak into the air. His gaze was deadly and utterly unforgiving; his abnormal eyes condemned me. I was petrified to the spot. I was convinced he was going to strangle me. I looked down at his hands -- they shook. He was considering it - - killing me. I flinched away from him with a cry when his hands moved, but he grabbed my wrists instead of my neck. He swiveled me away from him slowly and precisely, squeezing my wrists so brutally that I whimpered.

I arched away from his grip in an attempt to escape him, but he only snarled at me. I gasped an apology reflexively, and kept trying to escape. I writhed desperately as he shifted his grip, trapping both of my hands with one of his. His free hand traveled up to my neck, and a single finger rubbed the dip at the bottom of my throat. I shut my eyes and shuddered, waiting for his finger to be pushed forward. "Never" he hissed, sliding the finger up my neck until it touched the bottom of my chin "Never strike me again."

He released me, but I hardly realized I was free at first. My wrists continued to throb as they had when he had held them; my breaths were ragged and my throat ached. The pain didn't stop even though the source of it had gone.

The Goblin King had moved away from me, and was hunched over the coffin. His eyes lingered devoutly on the girl's face; he looked devastated, ruined. If I hadn't know there was a cavity where his heart should have been, I would have reached the conclusion he was grieving for her.

I looked at him intently, waiting for him to see me. Telltale tears slipped down my cheeks and my wrists were red with pent up blood. I was glad. I wanted him to see what he had done to me. I wanted him to fall onto his knees, grab my skirt in shame and plead for my forgiveness – just so I could have the pleasure of turning my head away and staring in another direction.

After a minute he glanced back at me, then he returned his attentions to the dead girl for a moment, abandoning her again after a few seconds of staring. He moved in my direction, whispering "I'm sorry," as he brushed against me.

It was obvious he didn't mean a syllable. His words were empty, a soulless imitation of human courtesy. He had no desire to gain my forgiveness, just as I had no desire to give it to him.

I turned around to face him. One of my hands nursed the wrist of the other; I was intent on making him feel guilty. "You're sorry?" I laughed at him, I felt it was time someone mocked him. "You ruin my life to keep your ego happy, turn me into a recluse too scared to celebrate my own birthday and you can only say you're _sorry_?" Rage made my voice shrill, and I breathed deeply to try and calm down. He didn't look ashamed; rather he looked at mecuriously, as if I had been spouting intriguing gibberish.

"I made you do nothing. You created everything you can see around you. Without your ignorance, without your countless, wretched mistakes –" he spat the words out, his eyes didn't stray from me – "The land you are standing on wouldn't even exist. None of this needed to be." He moved closer, his eyes bore down at me condemningly – the tilt of his head making him seem far taller than his actual height – and I stepped away, my eyes darting to my feet as I moved.

I focused on the beginning of what he had said as I stared at my dirt-clogged toenails. I ignored the rest; I didn't get what he was trying to say and couldn't risk exposing my stupidity. "Nothing?" I said. After a moment, I raised my head to stare at him and waved my arms around elaborately. "You call manipulating my dreams nothing? Is abusing my poor, innocent friends nothing? What about making me sick, restricting me to my bed for days? Is all that nothing?" I was on the brink of hysteria; I had to smother a desire to scream. To my immense frustration, he failed to react. "What the hell do you expect me to do after all that, go on like normal? Do you expect me just to brush it all off?"

"No. I expect you to accept reason."

"And reason is . . ?"

"You know perfectly well." He folded his arms, assessing me with an air of infinite superiority.

"Oh," I smirked, crossing my arms just as he had, to see if I could provoke a reaction. He copied me just as I had copied him, tweaking his lips slightly and folding his arms. Without hesitation, I let my arms drop to my sides. "Are you talking about your letter? Your master plan? You expect me to fall onto my knees and beg you to take me away? Am I expected to live happily as your – " I struggled to find the right words – "as your coveted, cooed-over pet?" The idea of it made me queasy, but I managed to hold his gaze. He was going to learn exactly what I thought about his plan. "I'd rather die."

He ignored that. He probably realized my words were just as hollow as his apology. "You will be far more to me than a pet. To keep you as a pet would be a tragic waste." I didn't like his voice; it was too appreciative. He advanced slowly, coming unpleasantly close. Although I frowned at him in disapproval, he wasn't quite near enough to me to make me back away.

Desperately attempting to sound condescending, I replied "Oh. So you want me to be a trophy, then? What are you going to do? Prop me up in a display case, like you have poor Hoggle chained to a wall?" I turned my head away from him, gulping back a sob.

Very gently, he set heavy hands upon my shoulders. I froze. "No," he replied, exasperated. "Have you forgotten what I told you? I thought I made your position clear." He rested his head upon mine before I had a chance to move, nuzzling my hair like an animal.

I froze, remembering the content of his letter. He had told me I would have his attention, if I were to submit to him. He had said I might prove capable of softening his temper, if I gave in early enough. Slowly, I counted all of the times he had called me dear, and remembered the affection he had lavished on me in my nightmarish dream. I realized exactly why he had signed off in sympathy and wrenched myself away from him in horror, turning to face him. His eyes lusted after me.

"Oh God," the words slipped out. The smile slipped from his face, and he took a quick, graceful step towards me. I bolted the instant he moved.

I half-ran, half-slipped down the mound, yelping when I found my path blocked by six huge, slobbering dogs. They looked at me eagerly, their bodies quivering in anticipation. I took a hasty step forward; the dogs reacted instantly, raising their hackles, growling and baring their sharp, angular teeth. Desperate, I tried to dart between them only to find that they out paced me effortlessly. I persevered, frantically trying to get away from the lilting, desiring voice of the dogs' master. As his voice grew closer, the dogs calmed. Their hostile growls were reduced to subservient whimpers. My body went cold.

He seized hold of me from behind. I screamed, shrieking hysterically, demanding that he put me down. He shushed me and clung to my waist, pulling me close. I gasped and tried to bite him, but my teeth fell short and pierced my own lip. I lifted my feet off the ground, blindly kicking him backwards. He didn't even flinch.

He eased me to the ground, first to my knees, then into a sitting position, then leaning into me slowly, forcing me to lie back against the ground. His hands guided me carefully the entire time, and he attempted to calm me by speaking in a soft, kind voice. His kindness heightened my distress, and I started to sob. I felt helpless, and whimpered pitifully as he pinned me to the ground with his weight.

He reached a hand under my cascade of hair to cup my skull, using it to hold my face still against his shoulder. His other hand moved freely over my body. He brushed his fingers against my face, slowly moving them down. My skin prickled and I gasped every time he pressed his spindly fingers against my body.

It was cruel, horrible – he has no pity, none at all. He didn't care that I shrieked, then begged, then attempted to push him away. He was lost to himself, enraptured by his own fantasy. As he experienced ecstasy, shame made my mind swirl. Nausea made my saliva taste bitter, and I couldn't force out anymore screams because of the weight that was pressed down on my chest. I couldn't really accept what was happening to me, the experience shattered every illusions of him I'd had. He wasn't a charming, compelling villain; he was a depraved, leering monster. He was as filthy and base as an animal.

I wept, my crushed chest heaving powerfully against his. He didn't react; he was too engrossed by what his hands were doing to my pretty, pale body to notice its efforts to repel him. Eventually, my sobs subsided with exhaustion.

The dead stench of leather came close to overshadowing every other sensation and made me almost -- but it never quite -- faint. His murmurs, the many, many different ways he said my name, and his constant contact with my body kept me open-eyed and alert. I couldn't block him out, I couldn't ignore him.

Thoughts raced past me; I felt like I was watching a rapid fire slideshow of my life. I saw everything: vacations to the coast, my first day at school, being abandoned, ballet lessons, skipping school to go to the park, the birth of my brother, play acting, whitewashing the walls of my room. I saw everything. Many of my memories were silly, inconsequential little things I thought I had forgotten. Like the time Mom said my red sweater with the embroidered cats was cute – that flash felt new. I started caring about that and all my other silly little recollections the instant I realized I might loose them, I realized they mattered. If he wanted to, the Goblin King could make me loose all of my memories. He could take everything from me.

Somehow, I managed to speak. My voice was a croak because my throat was raw. "Please, please, stop. I – I don't want to die."

Everything went quiet. There was no more murmuring, no more labored breathing – nothing.

He stopped. Propping himself up on one elbow, he gazed at me carefully, focusing on my read, tear swollen eyes. "Foolish, foolish girl." His voice was soft -- teasing even. He acted like we were sharing a joke "You distract me so; you attempt to appeal to my heart. Did you never consider I may not have one?"

An unintelligible, guttural noise rose from the back of my throat. Thinking about what a man – no, what a monster – without a heart could do to me. He could do anything: gobble me up, dismember me, mutilate me –anything.

For a moment, I thought I would choke to death on the sickening images of my imagination or at least be sick. That train of thought was stopped the moment he shifted his body so our faces were level. I gazed up at him, and he gazed back at me. My face was dirty and streaked with tears; his was pale, clean, and impossible to decipher. Very slowly, he leaned his face forward. His warm breath entered my mouth. Very gently, he pressed his lips over mine.

I was shocked at first. I think his display of tenderness scared me more than an extension of the torture would have. I was so used to abuse, he could have slapped me and I'm pretty sure my expression would have remained the same. His lips brushed over mine, soon moving to the remainder of my face. He was gentle and silent for minutes, I was surrounded by nothing but a wonderful, cushioning silence. I barely felt his caresses; his subtle fingers circled my belly, soothing me, calming me; working quickly to mask the agony I had experienced before. Eventually, I felt into a lull. In a warped way, his slow, careful hands made me feel loved and revered. I briefly managed to suppress the memory of what had gone before, and focused completely on the present. His actions were beguiling and coaxing; they contradicted his words, the terrifying words that my mind couldn't quite obscure.

Maybe he has decided to be kind now, I thought. Maybe he has started to pity me.

I became drowsy; I wanted to fall to sleep so I could wake up again. That was it, that was the way to do it. I had to go to sleep and leave my dream self at his mercy. I had to be brave. My eyelids fluttered repeatedly as they prepared to drop, and my body relaxed. Fear had made it stiff and tense, but as I got ready to sleep it softened, falling limply to the ground.

Just before I slipped into unconsciousness, the lulling silence was split by the sudden interjection of a voice. "I will set you free, Sarah."

My mind was foggy, his voice seemed unintelligible to me – it was serious, solemn and jarred with how gentle and compelling his movements had been before. "What – what do you mean?" I asked. I was in a daze and murmured my words. I felt strangely detached.

"I will leave you for two years. You will be at peace. I will not seek you for two whole years." He lifted himself away, the lower half of his body was still pressed against mine but the pressure on my breast was gone. I started gulping in air instantly, breathing clumsily. His eyes raked down my torso, making me feel shamefully conscious of my body. My jewel-covered corset was torn and broken; stray pearls and pierced opals were scattered across my thinly covered chest. The only barrier between his eyes and my breasts was a thin white chemise.

My chest climbed and fell, and I thought about what he could do to me. Where he could take me. He could drag me down to his filthy, squalid hole and keep me there if I allowed him to. I would rot there.

He continued, embellishing his proposal: "You will be free until you are eighteen. You will be able to complete your education; you will be able to spend time with your family." Somehow, his suggestions made sense to me. He was not completely evil. Compassion had managed to infect his logic – he pitied me, he was offering me freedom. Escape.

But I wasn't a total fool. I wasn't prepared to accept his actions rose from the goodness of a nonexistent heart, so I asked "But, why? Why would you do that?"

"You have something that I want."

"What? Tell me quickly." I closed my eyes, and braced myself for an answer. Although a part of me dreaded his response, another part of me anticipated it. I had developed a bizarre fascination with his perversity and was interested in learning how it was going to manifest itself.

"A kiss." I opened my eyes the second he spoke, just in time to see him as he vanished. He disappeared without heraldry; there was no glitter, no crack of thunder – nothing. I sat up, ignoring my corset as it fell off me, and instantly flinching away from the brilliant light that continued to emanate from the coffin. When my eyes became accustomed to the glow, I looked up at the star-flecked sky and smiled up at it deliriously. It looked beautiful, flawless even, without him in front of me to block it out.

Then I was struck by exactly what had happened to me, realization hit me like a blow. His absence made me realize that I had been in pain. My ill-protected chest ached from where the ridges of his armor had branded my skin; my hands were sore from the times I had tried to force him away and my legs felt like useless lumps of rubber. He hadn't just tortured me mentally, he had hurt me. I was damaged.

I wanted to simply forget, to sleep quietly in the light; I only wanted oblivion. But I knew that was impossible. I tried to pull myself together, recalling the breathing exercise Irene used to combat stress; she called it her coping strategy. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That was the way to do it. I mimicked her, inhaling the bitingly cold night air deeply through my nose before releasing it through my mouth.

When I had calmed down enough to do so, I struggled to my knees. My legs ached but I ignored them, my attention was occupied by what remained of my gown. Frantically, I tried to make the stupid, shimmering skirt panels of my half-destroyed dress shield my legs. My lovely, fairy tale gown was shamefully indecent in reality and I damned it to the darkest, most impenetrable chamber of hell. Hell. That was right. My dress and everything else I had encountered in this nightmare belonged in hell.

Eventually I looked up, glancing behind me. He was a few feet away, watching like a voyeur. Seeing him made me tighten my fists in anger. Did seeing me struggle gratify him? Did watching me try to cover my legs tempt him to produce the sordid, stomach-turning sounds he had produced when he was touching me? I closed my eyes in an attempt to block out the memories, shuddering slightly when they refused to die.

When I opened them again, I focused on his face. The lust in his eyes hadn't altered and I turned my head from him, cringing openly. It was obvious he wanted more than an innocent kiss, more than tender, loving embraces. He wanted me in a way I never want to be wanted again.

"So I'll get two years, if I kiss you I mean? You won't come near me for two years?" I was mildly repulsed by my voice. It was flat, my words were mechanical.

"You have my word, and my word is something I rarely give, _Sarah_ dear." He smirked at me; the small twist of his mouth made him seem like a lesser demon of hell. I loathed the way he spoke my name, as if it were a commodity, a pretty vocal object.

I'm Sarah Williams. My middle name is Katherine, after Katherine Hepburn, the actress. I am not _Sah-rrah_. He shouldn't get my name wrong, not now; it's been such a long time –

No, no. Mustn't think of the past. Let's move on.

I got to my feet. He reached out a hand to help me, but I ignored it; my pride was in ruins, but I would never drop so low so as to allow myself to accept his help. I moved towards him slowly, stopping a few inches away from him.

I said nothing, I had no reason to. At that moment I was prepared to accept any deal, as long as it meant my escape. The two years he had promised me sounded too enticing, too welcome, to refuse. He bent his head expectantly; his eyes never blinked, and tendrils of his pale hair teased my skin as I inched my face closer to his. I shut my eyes, unable to bear the thought of witnessing his victory. My head shot forward and my lips rested on his mouth for a moment before I pulled back. I cringed, wiping the bottom part of my face roughly with my arm and spitting on the ground to remove the sour taste of his lips.

He shuddered minutely, his eyes closed and the slightest smile you can imagine tugged at the corners of his lips. He opened his eyes again slowly and looked forward, inching his head up until it gazed straight ahead at the star pricked sky, gradually coming to terms with his victory.

I cried out when he suddenly embraced me, stroking my mussed hair, kissing it firmly and murmuring strange, nonsensical words. I wailed fitfully; raining fierce, rage fueled blows on his chest for lying, for breaking his endless, honeyed promises. He ignored me utterly, moving his hands away from my waist so his long fingers could curl around my wrists. He pulled me back up the rise, walking backwards and looking at me intently as he led me back to the coffin. Releasing one of my hands, he moved to stand besides me, allowing me to see ahead. The light had receded and the glass top had been removed from the girl's coffin.

I looked at her -- and froze. It was me. The angel was me. Her gown, her elaborately arranged hair and her startlingly white skin made me recognize her from my dream. She seemed flawless at first: one of her fine hands was pressed against her heart, and her skin was as white as fresh milk which I couldn't help think made her look slightly wrong, wrong in the way a lovely, marble effigy is wrong. Although I couldn't think why, she wasn't fully convincing. I examined her more closely. Her hair was a bed of delicate, silver threaded curls. Her profile was hard to make out; my eyes were denied her face. My gaze traveled down instead and I stared at her neck; it was dominated by a diamond necklace that flickered in the dying glow of the sun. It climbed and fell with her weak, strained breaths. She was trembling; her closely-bound chest shuddered from the effort it took to survive. I frowned; she wasn't supposed to struggle, there wasn't meant to be any pain. Shunning my concerns, I moved on, taking in the sight of the dazzling white gown that contained her small, feeble looking body. It was the same dress I had worn in my dream. The beautiful, snow-white dream that had seen him take me in his arms and dance with me.

Painstakingly, she turned her face toward me. I pulled away, horrified. Her face had lost its angelic glow; it had become a translucent, sickly copy of mine. Her eyes were coarse and red. Slick tears threaded their way down her cheeks, hanging, trembling, on the brink of her face for a few seconds before falling onto the fat red pillow that supported her head. Her tears shocked me; I was Sarah. Brave, heroic Sarah. I had never imagined I would see myself cry.

He watched her with equal greed. He no longer held my wrists; he had released them and only held one of my hands, crushing it in his. After a few moments of silence he raised it to his lips and addressed me: "You should have thought more about what that little kiss meant for you, Sarah. You should have thought about what will happen when your two years are spent. You should have asked me what you will become." I went cold. His grip faltered for a second; my hand must have chilled his. I felt numb, and was only capable of staring at the body. My mind screeched at me, ordering me to challenge him, demanding that I make him explain the significance of my kiss.

I reached a hand to my throat, frantically searching for my necklace, my beautiful, precious necklace. My present from Nana. I had to find something – anything would do – to reassure me that it wasn't really me in the coffin, that the dying girl wasn't a horrendous vision of my present, or – God, have pity! – my future. I clawed at my throat in desperation when I realized the necklace wasn't there.

"Do you want for something? Ask Sarah,_ ask_ me." He watched as tears sprung into my eyes, and must have noticed that my hand never left my throat. His eyes followed it as it repeatedly rubbed my neck.

"The necklace? Is that what you want?" He reached his eager fingers towards the girl's throat, keeping them a few inches away from her necklace as he waited for my answer. He leaned over her and she looked up at him helplessly with her huge, pale eyes. Her breathing speeded up, and she opened her mouth to cry out but nothing came out. I felt a surge of pity for her, then a surge of horror as I was struck by a terrible, grotesque image of a diamond necklace being reverently set around my neck. The jewels started to bleed, shedding fat drops of blood. Rivulets of blood slipped down my front, leaving thick scarlet trails on my skin.

I yelped shrilly in distress. "No! Stop! Please, just leave her. Don't hurt her."

He froze, withdrawing his hand and straightening. I looked at the dying girl, slightly relieved when I saw that her breathing had settled. My attention moved to the Goblin King quickly, as he clasped my hands in his. I think he was afraid I may have tried to wrench myself away. "Of course. Don't fear."

We both gazed at the girl, equally transfixed. I was enchanted and repulsed by the sight of her. Her lovely eyes dredged up memories. I remembered what she had looked like at the ball. She had looked perfect in her purity - every other extravagantly dressed person in the room look like a warped, fleshy grotesque by comparison. She had been completely untouchable, the epitome of beauty and innocence.

But she had changed. Her beautiful face had been spoilt, only traces of my lovely reflection remained, somehow penetrating the sickly haze that toned her skin. Her hair was dark and glossy, the beauty of her clothes was undiminished and her eyes were stunningly bright despite the ruined, worn face they were set in.

What have you done to her? I wondered, glancing briefly at the monster that clutched my hand. Are you going to do the same to me?

He broke the silence, speaking distantly, as if on an impulse he wasn't sure he wished to share "Isn't she beautiful? It is a pity she must die, truly a shame, but she does so for you. She is slipping away now. It is sad, very sad but you must not cry for her, she was never intended to last. Try to understand."

It all made sense then. The result of my giving him a quick, reluctant kiss was dying in front of me. I'd just won what most people pine for: my dreams. Kissing him had sealed my belief in them; it had transformed my dreams into my future.

The largest irony was the fact I had ceased to want them.

When the Goblin King had told me he was offering me my dreams the first time I met him, he had meant every word.

The feeble, dying girl was my fairytale immortality, my glory, my idealized self. She was the brave heroine princess ensnared by the wicked demon king, destined to be his forever. She was the subject of plays, ballads, and stories intended to caution small children against the dangers of egotism. She died to make space for me in the halls of immortal fame.

Stunned, I looked down at the corpse "I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . . Oh God . . . I, I didn't . . . I'm so sorry . . . You have to believe me . . . I'm sorry" over and over again. I couldn't stop. My voice was caught in a circle.

I passed away from my nightmare as crickets and birds crowed in the distance; I never stopped saying sorry.

It was only when I woke, not a minute after I had left, in my own bed, in my own room with its whitewashed ceiling, that I began to register that the girl was more than an imitation; she was my future. I had watched my double die – slowly, painfully – so I could take her place and take up permanent residence in my nightmares. I think the best part of me passed away when I realized that.

I'd lost everything, and I was not going to live past my eighteenth birthday.

The clock on the wall of my room ticked, and I heard the stilted, dread filled strike of every second.

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Research Elisabeth Siddal. Please.

Sorry about the disturbingness, readers. As with every chapter, head to my homepage on my profile for goodies.

This is extraordinarily long, isn't it? Sorry. I'll try to stop that happening again.

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!


	7. Carpe Diem

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the William Blake poem I have quoted from, just as I do not own anything he has written. **

**Tragic, isn't it?**

Chapter Seven: Carpe Diem

_For Mercy has a human heart_

_Pity, a human face:_

_And Love, the human form divine,_

_And Peace, the human dress._

William Blake. The Divine Image.

_  
_I was overwhelmed by a strange kind of peace when I got out of bed. I ignored the bruising on my wrist, and didn't give the neat, unspoiled letter which had been returned to my dresser a second glance as I left my room.

I went in to see Toby. I looked down at him, smiling and stroking his fine, golden hair as softly as I could. I didn't wake him, and left the room in silence. I moved into to the bathroom, ran a cloth under the tap and proceeded to scrub my face until my cheeks throbbed.

I went downstairs to the kitchen next. I rummaged through the cupboards to find a tin, and upon successfully unearthing one I carefully lowered what remained of my birthday cake inside it.

I washed the dishes, testing the water as it surged from the tap as I waited for it to warm up. When the water was frothy and scalding hot, I did the dishes. I scrubbed every pot, plate and pan until it shone and I dried them all just as thoroughly. I was very careful to put everything back in its right place when I packed the dishes away.

I moved into the living room and examined all of my cards, reading the messages inside them for the first time. Very softly, I smiled again.

I turned away from my cards when I heard the door crack open. Feet scraped quietly against the doormat, and I heard two people whisper to each other; my parents were home.

I ran into the hall and threw my arms around Dad, yanking him towards me in a tight hug. I muttered "I love you, Dad," as I held him. He pulled away when I started making it difficult for him to breathe. To my delight, his impassive face had cracked into a smile. I moved over to Irene, and grabbed her hand. I briefly considered hugging her but quickly decided that would be going too far, so I squeezed her hand instead.

"I want to say I'm sorry. I never meant to be so miserable, it's just I've just been worrying about things and stressing about school and my friends and everything." I gulped to try and steady my voice. I needed to, after reciting so many lies. "I ruined everything, and I'm really sorry!" I spoke earnestly, rushing my words out to keep myself from crying. Irene and Dad simply looked on in stupefied bemusement; they thought I was kidding them.

I pulled Irene into the living room by her hand. Dad followed. I spoke as I moved: "I've looked at my birthday cards and straightened them out a bit. I thought I'd make myself useful; I didn't want to leave it all for you to do when you got back. It was really nice of you to take Alice and Thomas back for me, thanks. I've done the dishes too." I tugged at Irene's hand in an attempt to lead her into the kitchen, but she held me back, squeezing my hand firmly in reply. She smiled at me kindly with her special, reassuring smile. She used it to appease Toby whenever she handed him to a stranger.

"It's all right, Sarah, really it is! We understand, sweetie," she simpered. If she had used such a tone on me the day before, I would have felt nauseous. "Thanks, you've done a great job." After a brief pause, she spoke again – her tone became hard and uncompromising. "Hasn't she, Robert?" She snapped the question, and Dad was jerked out of his stupor.

"Uhh, yeah. Well done honey." He offered me a wide, clumsy grin and I smiled back at him reflexively. I felt a kind of protective amusement whenever he appeared bewildered, which he nearly always was when he was with Irene. She was a lot like Nana in some respects: uncompromising, sharp, and exceptionally well-organized. She always managed to make Dad come across as a fool because he was, by comparison, slow.

We chatted a bit longer. I thanked them a few more times, apologizing until I was expressly ordered to stop. When unable to offer any more apologies, I realized I didn't have anything else to say, so we all went to bed.

I didn't touch my pills. I decided that the only way to determine if _he _would keep to his word was to entrust myself to natural sleep.

The nightmares never arrived.

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I have never had as much focus, as much drive, as in those two years. Never. I was obsessive in my dedication to my routine.

On the first day after my birthday, I found some notepaper and wrote down exactly what I had done wrong and what I needed to do to set things right. I wrote long, rambling condemnations of myself, devoted dozens of paragraphs to my ignorance, laziness, and vanity. Then, I outlined a plan for my salvation: I would educate myself. I would be kind and appreciative of my family. I would be a nice person.

For the first time in my life, I had a goal. Knowing what I had to do made me increase the speed of my walk and smile more frequently. I said hello to strangers when I went on walks and offered to help the reclusive, aviary-owning old woman who lived across the street with her shopping. She told me she was perfectly fine as she was. It was hard not to feel hurt by her refusal. When she slammed the door on me, I soothed my afflicted ego by reminding myself of my good intentions. Thinking of them made me smile again.

I spent most of my mornings throughout summer break waiting for the doors of the library to open, my only company the gang of thrifty old men who couldn't be bothered to pay for the morning paper. I would swoop down on my chosen territory (a plush chair next to the World History section) and pick up from where I'd left off the previous day. I barricaded myself behind precarious piles of books at the foot of the chair as I read up on a host of subjects which meant nothing me. I devoured everything I could lay my hands on, no matter how bizarre. I remember spending several days studying a textbook called _Structural Engineering for Beginners_. Once I had finished that, I began on _Tess of D'Urbervilles_. I stopped after reaching the end of the first section; I had preferred the textbook.

When not at the library, I spent hours playing with Toby. I took him out in his stroller and, later, when he learned to totter along properly on his stout little legs, took him on walks. I allowed him race ahead of me, offering him the freedom his mother was too protective to allow so I could hear him laugh. Toby radiated life and; he never seemed to get tired; he never stopped chattering and screamed in protest when I ordered him to do something he didn't want to do. He wore me down, but I never let that stop me spending time with him.

Alongside that, I tried to make amends with Irene. I went out of my way to speak to her, listened to her advice and occasionally endured _Dallas_ with her in the evenings. She was pleasantly surprised by the extent of the change of me, and was thrilled when I asked if she would help me decorate my room. I came to regret my offer. Irene was frustratingly fussy. I chose an unremarkable shade of orange for the walls and she told me off for painting it on too sloppily. According to Irene, painting a wall was supposed to take a lot of time and an even greater amount of patience. From the way she talked about interior decorating, it would be easy to reach the conclusion she had mentored Picasso in a past life. As I had had to put up with her as my ballet teacher for four years, I knew she was simply being a perfectionist.

I surprised myself by always managing to force a smile out when Irene looked at me. I had forgotten about my natural flair for faking, and learned that there are always times when it is justifiable to lie.

To earn some money, I got a job at a diner in town. I worked there every weekend from three in the afternoon until nine at night. During the summer, I worked Monday to Friday. I generally went straight to sleep after getting home from work, invariably exhausted. I hated the work at first, spending my mornings dreading the prospect of another six hours of boredom. I didn't want to spend my inexpressibly precious time handing out hamburgers to grunting teenagers and attempting to appease the unappeasable hunger of large, sloppily behaved families. I only got through the first weeks by telling myself I had to do it. I needed money, I reminded myself firmly, and there were far worse things I could be doing than working in a diner.

Things improved after a while. I got to know the people I worked with by chatting to them in quiet moments, and learned that a few of them were in my grade at school. Work became bearable, although it was never fun. It is an unspoken law that work will always be a distraction from what you really want to do.

I thought about my future. I tried to formulate a sensible, temporary, achievable career plan which went beyond _Ricky's Place. _I considered training as a teacher, or maybe a nurse. I felt like I had to help people, as many people as I could. I scanned through books on the subjects and planned to speak to the guidance counselor when I got back to school – I wanted to start training as early as possible. I was prepared to work after school, during weekends and vacations – anything. I just wanted people to remember me.

At the end of August, I dropped all of those plans. I had taken Toby to the park at his request. It was packed, and heaved with noise, life and laughter. The experience was intensified by the pulsing summer heat. I felt slightly unwell, and was annoyed that Toby had refused to let me take him to the pool instead. He insisted on going to the park, and had badgered me about it so persistently that I had agreed.

I accompanied Toby to the slide, and my face slowly cracked into a smile when I heard his squeals of glee. Afraid that he might slip or fall, I crouched by the bottom, ready to grab him if anything went wrong. My smile slipped when he pulled an ugly face at me from the top of the slide, giggling mischievously when I frowned at him.

The confused roar of children's laughter – for all the children were laughing; Toby wasn't the only child making a noise – swiftly became an irritation. The screeching cries, giggles, and rage-pitched shouts made my head ache. The pain quickly became unbearable and I backed myself against the slide for support, gasping as I tried to calm myself down. I felt feverish, my forehead throbbed, and I recalled the words. I heard the echo of my own voice as I said it aloud. I sounded remote, my voice was as distant as a tiny, pink prick of a star as I wished my brother away. I hadn't felt a thing.

I stormed towards Toby, picking him up and putting an end to his fun. I ignored his protests, and he wailed and kicked me all the way home. I didn't mind. I only cared about getting home, getting away from Toby and being on my own.

I handed Toby over to a bewildered Irene and ran upstairs, retreating to my room. I fell onto the bed and snatched clumps of my hair, yanking them as fiercely as I could, punishing myself for my thoughts. I barely held back tears of despair. Nothing was going right.

When I had calmed down, I thought things over logically. Eventually, I decided that things couldn't continue as they were. I had been kidding myself, acting like a cookie-cutter girl scout and smiling all the time. I was spoilt, fanciful and selfish, and although I had the potential to be kind and generous, displaying kindness without having any reason to felt like a squirm-worthy betrayal. The idea of becoming a nurse or a schoolteacher horrified the real me, because the real me continued to dream of a Broadway stage and being treated to a roar of hand-stinging applause six nights a week. The thought of having to take elderly people to the bathroom or trying to make myself heard over the chatter of a gang of rude, obnoxious seven-year-olds repelled me.

So I held onto my dreams of becoming an actress. They provided me with a reprieve from reality; I day dreamed about playing poor, conflicted Isabella in _Measure for Measure_ – or maybe something lighter, like the excruciatingly spoilt Cecily in _The Importance of Being Earnest_. I would have been thrilled to play either part, and felt confident about the sorts of roles I wanted to perform. That was mainly thanks to my consuming _A Concise History of Western Theatre_ in the library over a single weekend.

The difference between this fantasy and my previous ones was that I wasn't obsessed with acting. I didn't waste hours dreaming about a future that wasn't going to happen, and would only imagine how terribly my wrist would ache from signing autographs for my clamouring fans in the moments that followed placing my head on my pillow and falling asleep. As time wore on, I found I didn't need my fantasies as badly as I had thought, and only continued to dwell on them out of nostalgia.

Occasionally, when I sat listening to a teacher in class or tickling a squealing Toby under his armpits at home, I would think to myself: 'I had strange dreams when I was younger, didn't I?'

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I could swear I nearly sent the receptionist at school into a stroke at the beginning of the autumn term when I asked for leaflets on the school's societies. From her stupefied reaction you'd think the only human contact she had was via the phone. Thinking about it, that was probably the case. She rummaged about in a drawer for a minute, then a bundle of papers were thrust rudely into my hand. I muttered "Thank you," and backed away, slipping back into the surging mass of students heading towards class.

I pored over the papers that night in bed. I singled out the Drama Club, the Book Club, and the Chess Club for my attention. I was after variety.

We had an odd teacher in drama; his name was Mr. Lawrence and he appeared to be under the impression that he was a ringmaster of a tacky circus. He wore burgundy smoking jackets, had an amusingly large pocket watch, and took great care to make himself completely incomprehensible. He took himself incredibly seriously; at the start of our first meeting launched into an elevated speech about the integrity of art, prompting me to burst out laughing. I attempted to make amends by offering a humble apology after pulling myself together, only for my words to be dismissed with a glare.

Mr. Lawrence got his revenge a few months later when he cast me as Hero in the school's production of _Much Ado About Nothing. _God, I hated that character. She was wetter than the Pacific Ocean, and showed a talent for only one thing: fainting. By the end of rehearsals I would have willingly put my hands around my own neck and squeezed to spare myself having to say another one of her lines.

I really loved the Book Club; it forced me to read books I wouldn't have even considered before. _Structural Engineering for Beginners_ was probably the most outlandish book I read in the library. Before Book Club, I wouldn't have even dreamed of picking up _Ulysses_ or _1984_.

I found Orwell's book quite amusing, mainly because the most remarkable thing that happened to me in 1984 was viewing _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom _in the cinema with Dad and Irene. It scared the bejeebus out of me, and I had a horrible, horrible nightmare afterwards: I watched myself drown in a pit that seethed with insects and vermin, and I was powerless to reach a hand out and save the other me. Fear paralyzed me. I woke up at two-thirty in the morning, sweating and breathing raggedly, feeling like I had my throat crushed. I sat up and pulled my blanket back to get up and go into Dad's room for comfort but stopped when I remembered Irene was with him. I lay back down and closed my eyes. Moments like that reminded me exactly why my stepmother incited jealously.

Anyway, returning to Book Club. I made friends there, good friends. I hung out with them in the park after school. Now, as I reminisce, I can't help but wonder if they remember me.

I'm not going to lie about my feelings about Chess; it was excruciatingly dull. I felt like poking my eyes out every Wednesday lunchtime, which was when the meetings took place. I was completely outnumbered by spotty boys who tried to communicate with me by saying things like "No Sarah, you don't move the Knight that way, it's _this_ way." It never sank in; my stupidity frustrated me to that extent that I would have stopped going had it not been for the people. Although one or two of them were mean and condescending, most of the guys were really nice – that is, when they got over the shock of having to share their chessboards with a reasonably attractive girl. Then there were the predictable consequences of joining such a set – such as being talked through the finer points of point scoring in _Dungeons & Dragons_.

There was another extra curricular activity I haven't mentioned yet: self-defense lessons. What made this activity different was that it wasn't in any way connected with school. It was independently funded by a woman called Maureen who was driven by a passionate desire to teach the women of America how to hit the bastards of America where it hurts.

When I expressed a desire to attend 'self-defense lessons' to my parents after seeing a poster for the course summarized above in town, I was met with bafflement from Dad and praise from Irene. The first thing Dad asked was, "What do you need lessons like that for in a little place like this, honey?"

Irene cut in quickly, enthusing: "Oh, don't be such a bore, Robert!" She turned to me, baring her teeth to form a smile. "I think that sounds like a great idea, Sarah. You're being so responsible. Your father will give you a lift to class, if you want." She glared at Dad; her expression heavily implying that she was not prepared to give him a choice. She continued, to me, "You've grown up lately. I'm impressed. I really am." She beamed at me and I managed to produce a small smile in response.

The people who attended with me were extremely diverse. The first thing I noted was that they were all women and they were all older than me. I can't remember many details, I just recall that the classes were attended by women of every description. There were skinny, mousy-looking housewives who looked like they wouldn't hurt a fly but took to violence with disturbing ease; stout, sullen faced girls in their twenties who weren't quite as nasty as they looked; and grannies in their sixties who could pack a surprisingly powerful punch.

There was one exception to the all-girls rule: a token boy. I felt sorry for the guy, mainly because Maureen employed him as a guinea pig. She tried not to give that impression, insisting that "it's nothing personal" despite KO-ing him to the floor at least once per session. I'll never forget his expressions during Maureen's inspirational, man-hating rants. I could swear he literally turned green when Maureen graphically outlined the 'grab, twist, and pull' technique. To intensify his pain, she finished with the words "It works every time, girls!" Understandably, he fainted.

He looked so out of place, it was ridiculous. He was a head taller than Maureen and had an awkward, nerdy laugh that always managed to surface at inappropriate moments. Like when I stepped in the door on the first day. He was the only one who saw me coming in and he laughed at me, giggling as if he didn't have a brain. My eyes welled up with tears. I thought he was mocking me, and took a few small steps back. He saw my expression and jogged over to me from the back of the hall, stopping me before I could leave. He explained that he had catalogue of problems related to social interaction and, after listing most of them, said hello and introduced himself as "Jamie. Jamie Pratt." He shook my hand vigorously, displaying a big, slightly deranged smile. I was pretty sure what came across as mental instability was actually desperation; if I hadn't been I wouldn't have touched him with a ten foot long barge poll.

Miraculously, we became friends; I managed to look past his social incompetence. We stood next to each other in practice, and I teased him mercilessly about his ineptitude. It didn't even take three lessons for me to outclass him, I had knocked him to the floor by week two. The lessons stopped after a couple of months, but we continued to see each other. He could drive and took me on trips to town. We went for walks in parks and complained to each other about everything we could think of: the cold, the price of coffee, the bullies at school. He asked me to be his girlfriend on Christmas Eve, and I said yes.

I didn't love him, but I didn't hate him either, and that seemed like the best relationship I could hope for at the time.

…

…

…

Jamie hadn't been the first boy to ask me out. When I opened up and started paying attention to people instead of my fingers, boys began to show interest in me. On one occasion in English, I glanced behind me and saw that a guy I didn't really know was watching me. He dropped his head and blushed furiously the moment he realized I had seen him, but that didn't stop him staring. I saw him looking on several other occasions, and the fact he could look but never speak filled me with a fusion of frustration and disgust. The silence of his interest disturbed me, and I was only able to work without glancing at him every ten seconds when he switched to another class. I never found out why he moved, although I had an uncomfortable idea that his decision had something to do with me.

The first boy to show interest _and_ ask was one of the guys from the Chess team. He had acne and thick-rimmed glasses which always seemed to be on the brink of slipping off his nose. He asked me out three weeks after I joined the team; he said I was 'cute' and asked if I'd like to go and see a movie with him at the weekend. I said 'no' as nicely as I could, apologizing before moving over to the other side of the room. I looked back at him briefly, and instantly regretted my curiosity; the poor guy looked like I'd just punched him in the stomach. The ensuing awkwardness was terrible; he couldn't even bring himself to talk to me.

Jamie was something of a dork. He was utterly inoffensive and pitiful, like a kicked puppy. Dad and Irene loved him and happily let Jamie and me take Toby out for day trips in his car. Much to my annoyance, they seemed to trust Jamie more readily than they trusted me. Then again, that was probably only because he had a driver's license. I held no reservations about going out on dates with him, mainly because he seemed gloriously sexless. We barely kissed, and the only part of my body he ever touched was my hand. We were probably the most platonic couple in town.

Jamie and I split by the spring. He made the same mistake as his successors; he asked me if I wanted to take things further. To his credit, he did at least ask, unlike some of the others. Still, they retreated quickly enough when I started screaming.

One of them told me I was a freak as he departed. I stared him impassively; "No," I said; "It's simply that you are a monster." He left very quickly following that.

I never saw him again. I can't even remember his name.

…

…

…

I remember my seventeenth birthday well because it was extremely happy. The day was perfect and my party was even better. Irene was thrilled when I approached her about having a proper party, decking the house out with silvery banners and brightly-colored balloons and spending hours upon hours in the kitchen making snacks and treats for my party. I helped her move most of the furniture out of the lounge in the morning. For one day only, it became a dance floor.

I invited the entire Chess squad, six people from the Book Club and six friends from drama – a long since forgotten former boyfriend of mine was also there. The only thing I remember about him on this occasion was that he spilled one of his drinks onto the carpet. He didn't offer to clean it up, and I had to scrub the floor for ten minutes the following day to remove the stain.

We had a lot of fun. When the music started up I remembered the lessons I had taken as a little girl and performed a terrible, uncoordinated tap dance, making everyone in the room explode into laughter. Sue untied the ribbons at the back of my dress and wound them around a door handle while I was busy talking to one of the guys from the Chess team. I shrieked in surprise when I moved; I was jerked backwards and had to fling my arms out to keep myself from falling. I felt intensely annoyed and frowned for a few seconds, but soon saw the funny side and subjected Sue (I discovered she was the culprit thanks to a loose-tongued friend) to the same trick when I had the chance. She shrieked when she moved, reacting in almost exactly the same way as me. I was thrilled by my ability to play a successful trick; making someone else into the victim for a change thrilled me.

I was given some great presents. Olivia gave me a little bag with a long shoulder strap; it was blue and made like a patchwork with different cuts of flowery material. Ben brought me a box of chocolates, and Claire presented me with a blue, woolen hat she had knitted herself. The guys from the Chess Club had pooled together and brought me a Chess set of my own. A note with the words 'practice makes perfect!' had been stuck to the top of it. I rolled my eyes when I read it, and everyone who saw me sniggered.

My parents bought me the Walkman I had been bothering them about for months, and a bundle of cassette tapes to go with it. I'm sure you don't care, but I am going to list them anyway; I have them at hand, you see. I became the proud owner of _Slippery When Wet _(I was infatuated with Jon Bon Jovi at the time a fact that was testified to by the huge poster of him I had in my bedroom), _Houses of the Holy_ (Dad, surprisingly considering his overall conservatism, adored rock music) and _True Blue_ (Irene, unsurprisingly, found great pleasure in pop). Normally, I would have hated being forced to listen to music chosen by my parents, but I didn't complain. I actually found some of it quite enjoyable, in small doses anyway.

All of my cassettes, apart from the Madonna one, are gone now; I suspect they have all been stolen. The Goblins are terrible for stealing, which is incredibly frustrating because it's hardly like they can play the tapes anyway (thankfully, the walkman itself remains in my possession). To them, they must just seem like intriguingly decorated rectangles.

I never imagined my sole solace in captivity would be a Madonna album.

Pathetic.

…

…

…

My final year at school started well: my grades were high, I had an adequately sized circle of friends and was never bored. Overall, I felt happy.

Things weren't quite as good at home. As he got older, Toby started changing. Whereas he had happily embraced me as a toddler, he squirmed and shifted ever more noticeably as he got older. I rented a video for us to watch one weekend when I had a day off work, and he ran off and hid behind the settee because it wasn't a cartoon. I made cookies for him once, and he spat a half-chewed mouthful of one of them onto the floor. His excuse was that it tasted 'yucky.' I've rarely felt quite so hurt.

The months passed. Winter thawed to spring and I dreaded the arrival of my birthday. I hated waking up in the mornings, and was always exhausted because I spent most of my nights lying awake, worrying. I became a skilled worrier, I was probably entitled to some kind of diploma in anxiety by April.

I became distracted during class. I found myself incapable of paying attention to the teachers, and was frequently woken up in class by repeated shouts of my name.

Everything around me made me think about what was going to happen to me. Hearing all my friends excitedly plan road trips and jobs for the summer and gush about college made my body shake from frustration.

The worst part of it was keeping my anxieties secret. I would sit down silently at meals, listening to the busy clatter of knives and forks, picking up snatches of conversation and the occasional laugh. Once, I couldn't bear it and slammed my hands down on the table, storming up to my room. Irene followed and knocked urgently on my door, asking what was wrong. I didn't answer her. I couldn't.

I felt like crying when Dad and Irene asked me about college. They were asking me the unanswerable, and I hated it. Facing them and finding ways to deal with their curiosity was almost unbearable.

I started day-dreaming again, only this time I fantasized about normality. I dreamed of studying English at college. Finding a sweet, mild guy who would love me and respect me. Marrying him in a beautiful, confetti covered church ceremony. Having two and a half children who would never dream of rejecting me. Dying in my sleep as an old, wrinkled woman.

Once I had exhausted all of the possibilities for a normal life I could imagine, my mind turned to old dreams. I wondered what it would have been like if I had become a ballerina, what had I wanted when I was a little girl. Would I have danced _Swan Lake_ in New York? Would half of the men in the audience have fallen in love with me and sent me roses after the show? Would the _New York Times _critic have given me a good review?

When ballet began to bore me, my thoughts returned to acting. I loved dreaming of stages. Thinking about acting made me feel happy again.

You must understand this to understand the decisions I made; you must understand my terror of being forgotten. I wanted people to remember me, to love me and grieve for me when I was gone. I practically forgot that my family would do all of those things; I thought that wasn't enough. I wanted the world to weep for me. Fear made me a stupid, it turned me into a horrible, lumbering beast. I hate what I was, I truly hate it.

I never even considered applying to a college, even though I knew doing so would placate my parents. I lied to everyone who asked and didn't plan a thing. Instead, I took the most childish, brain-dead path open to me: I ran away.

…

…

…

Before long, I had everything figured out; I would tell my parents I was staying the night at a friend's. I'd leave early in the morning and tell them not to expect me back until the evening of the following day. I'd pack a suitcase and get a train to a distant destination. I'd find somewhere to stay. Once I had settled, I would devote all of my time and energy to achieving my dreams. I would act, I told myself; I would act like I had never acted before. I would bequeath my final performance to the world, and they'd love me for it. They'd adore me.

I began packing things discreetly when Dad and Irene went out for the day with Toby. I took everything that had significance for me: my Nana's necklace, my birthday presents, and old photographs. I packed sensible things as well: clothes, toiletries, hairbrushes, and so on.

Discreetly, I started drawing my savings out from the bank. For the first time in my life, I was happy I hadn't had much to spend my earnings on.

I handed my notice in at work at the beginning of March, telling Dad and Irene I would find somewhere else. I didn't bother to be specific, and neither of them showed a sign of caring. I told Dad as he sat reading the paper; he was a model of disinterest and muttered a response I couldn't make out. Irene was jabbering away on the phone to one of her friends and simply commented "That's nice, dear," when I told her my news.

I took all of my exams, using the sleeping pills which remained to help me sleep properly on the relevant nights. I felt tired but happy when they were over, for I knew I had tried my best. Clichéd, but true.

Dad and Irene looked ready to burst at the seams out of pride during my graduation. Afterwards, Irene hugged me until I could barely breathe and presented me with a silver, heart shaped locket. Dad kissed me gently on my cheek, and whispered that he was proud of me. I beamed. I was taken for a meal at a nice restaurant in town, and Dad let me sip some of his wine for a treat when we were out of sight of the waiters. It tasted strange – Irene was strict about alcohol, so I wasn't used to it – but I drank it gladly nonetheless. Consuming alcohol made me feel pleasantly mature.

I wrote two letters before I left. One was for Toby, and I expressly asked that he not be given it until he was thirteen on the envelope. The other one was for Dad and Irene; I told them not to worry and begged them not to open Toby's letter. If they read it, they were sure to think I was insane. No sane person writes about Goblin Kings and Labyrinths.

The night prior to my departure was sleepless. I felt sick. I was tempted not to go through with it, to stay at home and face my birthday where I was. I chewed my nails in the dark, a habit I had kicked at the age of seven. In my head, a voice told me to turn back. I buried my head underneath my pillow in response, clamping it around my head and wishing that the persistent, nagging doubts would just _stop._

Wishing failed to cure my doubts, and I ended up flinging my blanket off me and climbing out of my bed. After groping for the light switch, I wandered lethargically to my dresser and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out _his_ letter. I scanned it quickly, reminding myself of his evil. He would hurt my family if I stayed anywhere near them; I could tell. He would hurt everyone I loved if he could, that was just the way he was. So, I concluded that I would leave the next day. Following that, I didn't have anymore doubts.

The next morning I went through with my plan, announcing that I was staying with a friend for the weekend. Irene seemed pleased with me for being so sociable, and told me to have a good time.

She was too busy doing dishes in the kitchen to notice the amount of luggage I had as I left the house. I literally staggered out the front door, clutching the handle of my suitcase with both of my hands and trying not to fall backwards on account of the huge backpack I wore. I was glad I had been sensible enough to call a taxi beforehand, and knew I only had a few minutes before it arrived.

After leaving my luggage on the path, I returned to the house and found Toby in the lounge. I heard him before I saw him; he was bashing two of his action figures together, and his hollering cries reverberated around the otherwise empty room. I walked through the door quietly, crouching and observing him as he continued to play. I watched him from behind for a few seconds before putting my arms around him and drawing him back so his head fell against my chest. Toby's playthings were dropped onto the floor with two small, carpet softened thuds.

"I love you, Toby." I murmured, speaking softly to maintain control of my voice.

"Hey! Stop acting all soppy!" As I had predicted, he squirmed and attempted to push me off. His protests were, of course, futile.

I chided him "Don't be naughty. I just felt like saying I love you."

He strained his head back to look at me, frowning "Is something wrong? You sound funny."

I closed my eyes, drawing my head back and pulling my fingers through his hair. "No, Tobes. Nothing's wrong." I kissed him in the middle of his head and stroked his hair once more time before releasing Toby and getting to my feet. "Bye."

"When are you coming back?"

I paused before replying. "Soon," I lied. "Remember, I love you."

I walked away, and was just about to close the front door when Toby grabbed my arm. He looked up at me in earnest and inclined a finger. I lowered my head. After checking we were alone, he whispered, "I love you too, sis," into my ear.

I beamed at him. "Thanks. Now, go back and play with your toys. Have fun." Reluctantly, he left me, and returned to the lounge.

I was surprised by how happy I felt in the taxi on the way to the train station. I didn't mind the inane chit-chat of the driver, and didn't think about what I was doing.

…

…

…

…

…

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!


	8. Self Portrait

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing.**

**Tragic, isn't it?**

Chapter Eight: Self-Portrait

_And in these dark cells,_

_Packed street after street,_

_Souls live, hideous yet—_

_O disfigured, defaced,_

_With no trace of the beauty_

_Men once held so light._

H.D. Cities.

My memory of stepping off the train is astonishingly clear. I felt uncomfortable; my clothes were plastered to my body by sweat and I desperately wanted to strip everything off and run into a shower. I had spent most of the journey staring blearily at the darkness outside the window, unable to sleep.

Despite my exhaustion, I managed to stay upright when I got off the train and forced myself through the thick, perspiration-drenched crowds. Every person in the station was wrapped up in their own little world, none of them happy to be distracted when I pushed my way past them. For every shove I gave, I got a stronger one back. I was out of breath, bedraggled, and on the verge of shrieking when I found myself outside.

Suddenly, I felt awake again. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the stingingly bright light. After a minute of standing still, I stopped blinking and gave my new home a proper look.

My first impression was of the city's size; it was huge. Skyscrapers soared up into the sky, hundreds of cars were jammed in the roads and beyond the roads were shops that bore names I had only seen in Irene's fashion rags. For a moment, I felt like I had stepped into the pages of_ Vogue_ magazine only to correct myself quickly; _Vogue _liked to pretend warty, middle aged women and badly behaved children didn't exist.

Looking around - hearing all the chatter and the car horns – I could sense I was only seeing a fraction of the city. My mind thrilled as I thought about everything I had yet to see. I thought about the libraries, museums, and theaters which were waiting for me behind the crowds. Everything was falling into place. My face burst into a smile and I strode away from the station, blissfully immune to the noisy swarms of people around me.

After half-an-hour of searching, I found a hotel on the edges of the downtown area. It was exactly what I had been looking for: classy, neat, and obscenely expensive. Glass revolving doors led into the lobby and tastefully large potted plants stood proudly in every corner. After smoothing my hair into place and approving of the image of me reflected in the door, I walked inside.

I swaggered up to the counter and casually dealt out a sheath of bills, asking to stay in the best room in the place for one week. The receptionist counted the money ruthlessly, murmuring the numbers so quietly I couldn't hear what they were saying despite leaning against the counter, getting as close as I dared. When their thumb stopped moving, they looked at me, "I'm afraid this isn't quite enough for the room I think you have in mind, Miss…?"

"It's Gale. Katherine Gale."

"Miss Gale, to spend a week in the best room in this hotel would cost two thousand dollars."

I paused for a moment, swallowing an exclamation. "I think I'll have to go for something a bit more reasonable."

"Of course." After a few more minutes, I had arranged to stay somewhere in a room that bore a slightly more realistic price-tag. I glimpsed my face in the mirror behind the reception desk; my cheeks were an unflatteringly vivid shade of pink and my hair had expanded. I smoothed it down quickly, hoping the quick swipe of my hand wouldn't be noticed by the receptionist.

If he did notice he failed to pass comment, smiling and making small-talk as he rang for a porter to carry my suitcase up in the elevator for me. I knew I had brought his kindness with my cash, but didn't care. All that mattered was that I was getting what I wanted: smile-accompanied luxury.

I followed the porter through the enormous entrance hall to the elevator, glancing up and stopping for a moment to stare up at the beautiful, glinting chandelier that hung in the centre of the ceiling. The porter commented "It's a real beauty, isn't it? Everyone reacts the same way."

"I expect they do" I replied, following the porter across the rest of the hall.

Upon walking inside my new room, I found I only cared about collapsing onto the large, inviting bed. The covers were beautiful, they passed under my hand like silk and were embroidered with tiny, shimmering flowers. I had never had silk sheets before, but had always been curious about them and had puzzled over how such a thin, cold fabric could keep a person warm. For a second or two, I wondered whether I would be cold in the night, then dismissed the thought. It was June and I was in the centre of a city; there was probably more chance of feeling cold on the equator.

Thinking about temperatures made me remember my sticky body, and I stripped and tottered blearily into the bathroom. I showered for thirty minutes, gasping after turning the water on because it was icy-cold. It warmed quickly, and I scrubbed every inch of my dirty, stinking skin until it smelt of rose-flavored body lotion.

I was too tired and excited to locate my nightclothes, so I simply stripped down to my T-shirt and went to bed in that. Before drawing the curtains, I stared out into the city. I got a good view of the car-packed streets, and made out hundreds of tiny, scurrying figures in the light radiated by the huge, high-wattage advertisements stuck to every building. I was glad my window was closed; if it hadn't been, the city would have produced a roar. I had a ridiculous impulse to cite Mister Baum as I looked out, but a yawn warped my face before I had the chance, so I went to bed instead.

I slept for a long time -- until noon the next day. After waking up, I sat cross-legged on bed and flicked through the channels on the television until it was three. At that point, I dialed room service and ordered the most extravagant breakfast I could imagine.

…

…

…

The first few days were wonderful and busy. I invariably began the day with a painfully hot shower; this was followed by my _toilette_ – in other words, yanking my clothes on and disguising the imperfections of my face up with make-up. Once those procedures were complete, I ordered breakfast. These morning activities preceded exhaustive explorations of the city in the afternoon. My evenings were generally spent alone, reading a magazine or watching television, in the beautifully-wallpapered confines of my room.

With so much to do, with so many places to visit and sights to stare at, I lost sight of what I had come to the city for. My dreams of acting, of receiving laudation from Frank Rich and being barraged with roses, were replaced by thoughts of the next day. By this point, I had mostly stopped believing in the future.

I had a routine – a neat, comprehensible routine –adhering to it was a pleasure, and I hated the occasions when I was unable to follow it.

I did, however, track down one of the city's theaters – _The Harlequin._ It was up an obscure street, and I had to ask in a dozen or so shops before I was given directions to it. I felt crushed when I saw it; It was embarrassingly small and the posters only announced one show – a comedy called _You Can't Take It With You._

There were a few seats available for the matinee, so I was able to go straight in and wait for the performance to start. It was funny and it made me laugh; the dialogue sparkled despite the cheapness of the sets and the doubtful quality of the acting. The third act was spoilt because I was acutely aware of that the play wasn't going to last much longer, and I would be turned out. I would have to go back to my room. I hated things that finished with my being alone; they let reality and all its brutal truths back in.

I was disappointed when the play was over; I felt let down. There was nothing glamorous or exciting about that theater. I didn't let that deter me and asked them if I could work there, though. I thought I was being generous, thought they would jump at the chance for help in such a small place. But they turned me down.

I was disappointed but comforted my ego by providing it with various distractions. I brought _Vanity Fair_ and looked at every page, then brought a book and started to read it. It bored me; there were no pictures to keep my attention and I ended up tossing it into a trashcan.

I ate out, alone, and took immense pleasure in ordering the most expensive items on the menu. I was careful to never go to the same restaurant twice; I had Italian one night, Chinese the next and Indian the night after that. The curry I ordered at the Indian restaurant nearly fried my tongue, but I didn't mind in the slightest because it tasted exotic and exciting. Even better, it warmed me up. I always left generous tips and I always smiled at the people who waited on me because I loved the smiles I received in return.

On the seventh morning of my stay, I rang room service like I always did:

"Hello," I said. "It's Miss Gale in room five hundred and four, I would like my breakfast, the usual order if that's okay."

"Oh hello Miss Gale" the voice of room service simpered at me. "I'm afraid you have overspent on your account for now, would you mind going down to reception quickly?"

I hesitated before replying "How much do I owe?"

"A hundred and fifty dollars, Miss."

"I think you must have made a mistake. This is _Katherine _Gale, room five hundred and four."

"We haven't made a mistake, Miss. You owe the hotel a hundred and fifty dollars for meal expenses and television fees. Like I said, we'd appreciate it if you'd visit the reception. Thank you." The voice hung up, and I was left listening to a dull, manufactured buzz.

I couldn't pay, not without using up all the money I had left. All of my savings had been spent on my train fare, my hotel room, and frequent and extravagant shopping trips. I left an hour after speaking to room service on the phone. I walked out calmly and quietly – I ignored the huge, diamond-wreathed chandelier that had always made me gape before – and made myself as inconspicuous as possible by taking my things out in carrier bags. I left my suitcase behind – sad, but necessary. No one tried to stop me but I walked briskly for thirty minutes before I started feeling safe. No one had bothered to chase me, but I remained positive I'd soon hear footsteps and shouts behind me. I would be grabbed from behind and hauled off to jail like a common, petty criminal.

While walking through the city, I kept my eyes on my feet and my ears on the loud, clicking sound my heels made. I clutched the bags I was holding tightly in my rigid fists, worrying. I did have some money left, but it would have barely covered what I owed. I had just over three weeks left to live, and one hundred sixty-five dollars left to live on. For some reason, that didn't seem like much money at all.

The people I passed in the high street caused me great agitation. I was convinced they were staring – I told myself I looked terrible, like a tramp. I hadn't bothered to wash before leaving and hadn't had time to comb my hair; it was a long, ratty tangle.

The crowds thinned out as I started leaving the centre of the city behind me, and as I started to yawn from exhaustion, I found myself alone. I stopped for a few hours in a cheap, grubby café where I dined on a plate of soggy fries and an undercooked cheeseburger, reluctantly handing over a few dollars to satisfy my stomach. I stayed there until I was told to leave.

I continued walking, often staring bitterly fronts of several tall, mirror fronted hotels. As I continued, I found that high rises were becoming rarer and the streets growing narrow and dim. I could hear distant noises: shouts, laughs, and loud, vicious-sounding barks. The sounds scared me, and I made myself speed up, and tried to listen exclusively to the sounds that emerged from me.

The streets were dark before too long. Street lamps were sparse, and I walked without a clue as to where I was going. The buildings that towered to either side were black, impenetrable hulks, faceless and intimidating. Eventually, I realized there was no point in even trying to see and gave up. Anyway, anything worth seeing would be lit.

Despite this, I didn't stop looking behind my shoulder. I turned my head every few minutes, checking on the shadows that blotted out the town. All I ever made out were the distant lights of the city, and the dark of course. There were only a few distant dots of light, for the most part the dark was all there was. Even if there was someone there, I would not have been able to tell. That fact made me shudder slightly, and I increased my speed.

I walked until my legs ached before allowing myself a break, slumping gratefully against a wall. Resting my poor legs was a huge relief, and I lowered my bags to the sidewalk and yawned. I recovered after a minute and bent over to retrieve my things.

As my hands clutched the handles of my bags, a hand slipped onto my shoulder. I froze for a moment, then inched my head around; a man was beside me. I could barely make him out in the darkness, but could see enough to know that he wasn't who I had expected him to be. He goggled at me like a rude, invasive child. His breath reeked of beer and I recoiled, pressing my body into the wall, disgusted by him. He moved closer, laughing giddily, and pushed a hand against my hip, squeezing it like a hunk of cheap meat. My face twisted in revulsion, and I jerked my knee up, hitting him in the groin.

He swore and staggered back, groaning and bending over in agony. I grabbed my bags and ran. My shoes bashed against the road – I was convinced the heels were going to buckle and break – and my bags swung wildly in my hands, colliding with my legs. I panted from exhaustion, but didn't stop. I couldn't.

I knew I had to find somewhere to stay; I'd go anywhere, so long as it had a lockable door.

I felt like crying from relief when I saw a red illuminated sign ahead of me:

H EL

I dashed towards it. A trashcan lay on its side by the steps, and I accidentally scared off a grubby, mangy-looking cat which had been feasting on its contents. The door of the place was boarded up, but knocked urgently at the door anyway, bashing the wood with my knuckles until I heard the lock on the other side twist.

A woman with a wrinkled face opened the door a few inches, scrutinizing me through the crack. "What do you want?" Her voice was hard, humorless.

"A place to stay, please let me in. I've been traveling all night."

With a sigh and a clatter of a chain, she opened the door. Her frizzy brown hair was graying at the sides, her forehead embedded with deep-set wrinkles. She took periodical puffs from a cigarette, tilting her head up to blow steep plumes of smoke into the air "This had better be good."

"I'm real sorry for disturbing you." I stuttered, glancing behind me. The view was clear, all black, and I returned my gaze quickly to the woman. "Have you got any rooms?"

She responded with a question. "Have you got any money?"

I thrust my hand into my pocket, feeling around for my purse. I pulled it out and produced fifty dollars. "Will this do?"

"It'll do for now." She grabbed the money and moved back, waving me in with her hand. She moved further into the house as I closed and locked the door, going behind a desk and retrieving a key from a drawer. I lingered by the door, staring anxiously at my hands. I hated silence almost as much as I hated the dark. "Hey, you." I jerked my head up instantly. "Your key. Catch." She tossed the key across the room, and I caught it clumsily. The roughly cut point of it pierced my palm, splitting the skin. Blood leaked from the cut, and I pressed my fingers down hard to hide it from the woman. "Your rooms upstairs, the last one on the left."

"Thanks." I said. "Good night."

The women ignored me, shuffling down the hall, a thin, dove-grey trail of cigarette smoke lingering behind her.

…

…

…

It was a horrible place. It did not take me long to discover that I hated the proprietor; she was an evil gossip and liked passing judgment on people and situations she didn't understand.

My room was even worse. It was tiny, filthy, and home to a ludicrously extended family of roaches. The bed looked like it had been stolen from a mental asylum; it had a metal frame and, when I patted it, I realized that the springs poked through the mattress. Sleeping on it was torture, the springs dug into me like needles and I woke up every morning to find dozens of small, red marks spread over my back. Besides that, it was always damp and cold and I always had to wear my coat to bed. I was startled by the temperature of the place, I had never imagined June would be so chilly.

I will never forget how hungry I felt on that first morning. My stomach grumbled, and hunger fuelled my imagination with thoughts of raisin-clogged chocolates bars and firm green grapes. After getting dressed in clean clothes, I hurried downstairs to ask for breakfast. The woman who had taken my money the night before was there with a stranger, both of them chatted when they weren't shoving spoonfuls of sugar encrusted cereal in their mouths. Just watching them made my stomach growl. I coughed slightly to announce my presence, and both of them immediately turned their stares onto me. "Could I have some breakfast? I'm starving."

An uncomfortable silence set in, it was broken after a few moments by the woman's snort of laughter. "The money you gave me covers the cost of your room. Nothing else. Sorry." She couldn't have sounded less sincere if she'd tried to.

I was forced to leave and buy some food. It took me thirty minutes to discover a shop, and when I got there I brought everything that appealed to my appetite -- a loaf of bread, a pot of jam, a bag of candy, a bottle of lemonade and so on and so on. I tore open the bread and gobbled up two slices before I had left the shop; I had never realized plain bread could taste so good.

I was aware my money wouldn't last for long, and resolved to find a job. Being very firm, I told myself not to think too much about what it would be. With the exceptions of prostitution and drug trafficking, anything would do. I targeted the more disreputable-looking businesses, mainly because I was searching for a place that would pay me in cash. I wasn't quite stupid enough to use my real identity; I started off as Miss Gale, resolving to switch to Miss March after fleeing the hotel.

I found the perfect place in the end: a small, grimy café. I walked inside confidently; it was probably the twelfth place I had tried that day so all of my apprehension had vanished. I had become expert at introducing myself. I lingered inside for a while when I realized it was empty. I leaned on the counter, coughed, and gave the place one more sweeping look before giving up and heading towards the door. Just before I left, someone spoke.

"Sorry, do you want anything?" I spun around. The speaker was a young man. He was blond, lanky and dressed in sauce-smeared slacks. His chest heaved, and he swiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his tomato-red hand. His breathing gave the impression he was taking a break from a marathon.

I turned around, and gave him a sweet, endearing smile. "Oh. Yes. I'm looking for a job, I was wondering, do you need any help here?"

"You want to work _here_?" Amusingly, he looked shocked.

"Yes. Do you want me to?" He nodded vigorously and I could have sighed blissfully from relief if I had not needed to ask him more questions. "So, how will you be able to pay me?"

"He pays me cash. Will that do?"

"That will do just fine."

I gave him my made-up name ('It's Alice, Alice March'. Becoming Alice March was a precaution, a precaution I decided to take mainly because I suspected the police would be head-hunting a Katherine Gale) and the address of my hotel, leaving the place with a smile. Things finally seemed to be looking up. That feeling evaporated the morning I started work.

I was the subject of hate from the beginning, mainly because the nice young man who employed me had done so without bothering to ask the boss. Stuart had enough intelligence to work out that there was no way the business could continue with only two employees. The boss, however, did not see things that way. Consequently, he treated me as a pest, or, on good days, an unnecessary bauble. I was alternately referred to as 'legs' and 'the tart' – he conveniently went deaf whenever I told him my name was Alice.

I considered the kitchen of the place a prelude to hell. I will never forget my first sight of it: the sink overflowed with greasy water, frying pans, plates, and cutlery, all of which had remnants of food stuck fast on their surfaces. The floor was gritty and the sideboards clogged with garish plates and rusting cutlery. It took me four hours of sweat, swearing, and hard labor to make the place even vaguely presentable. My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach when I came back the next day and found it almost as horrific as it had been before.

The only redeeming features of the job were Stuart, the boy who had hired me, and tips. Stuart was kind and friendly, speaking to me whenever he was not busy being shouted at. As for the tips, they worked like this: if I smiled brightly enough, listened to mind-destroying amounts of rambling, and commented politely, I could earn myself extra cash.

Stuart and I were paid whenever our boss happened to feel vaguely generous, so money was doled out roughly once a week. I always came away with dual feelings: one part of me felt happy simply to be in possession of any money at all, the other utterly cheated. We were paid half what we deserved, I'm certain of it. Our boss was a cheap bastard. Despite my sense of injustice, I said nothing. I couldn't afford to.

The whole experience changed me. Things which had terrified me in the past became familiar. Take my feelings about the drunken shouts and general noise that filtered through my window at night as an example: they had made me shudder and bury my head into my pillow at first, but were familiar after a week.

As soon as I could afford one, I brought a thick blanket to cover the mattress and soften the points of the springs. I even brought a kettle; and I loved to spend my leisure time sitting on my bed with an exciting library book splayed open in one hand and a hot cup of boiling-hot coffee clutched in the other. After two weeks, I chopped off my hair so it fell at my chin. My neck was exposed, and the change made working in the boiling heat of the kitchen at work almost bearable.

My job provided me with human contact – it was often just me and Stuart, which was the way I liked it to be - the rest of my time I spent alone. I avoided the other people living in that building and was careful to get home before dark; I finished my shift at five so I was always out in time. I always kept myself busy, and if there was nothing that needed doing I would read a book or write. I filled the pages of a notebook with stories all of them from my happy memories. I thought I would have them forever if I wrote them down.

After I had settled, I sorted through all of my things to see what I wanted to keep and what I needed to lose. I amazed myself with the amount of garbage I had managed to amass. I had sequined tops, ribbed ones, baggy, violet-colored smocks. I hated them all and struggled to understand why I had brought them with me.

There was a thrift shop close to where I was staying; the women who worked there could not get over what I gave them. They must have said thank you a dozen times. They couldn't understand why I was getting rid of such beautiful things. I smiled sweetly and told them the truth -

"I don't need them anymore."

I left the shop without another word. I liked exuding an air of mystery; it made me feel exciting.

…

…

…

The nightmares started again several days before my birthday. I had experienced nightmares before, but they had been all vague and forgettable. These were different, like memories. I was recalling my future. Hand mangled my fingers, kisses tore my lips, and touches drew red, weeping lines down my legs. Deluges of tears spoiled my face and no one heard my terrified screams.

I always woke up with my scream on my lips. I sat bolt upright and grabbed my blanket, squeezing it against my heaving chest and staring straight ahead of me in the dark, shrieking and sobbing in fits. The second time it happened, someone shouted "Shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch!"

I went silent instantly, too shocked to react. After that, my nightmares only produced soft, blanket-smothered whimpers.

I tended to shiver in my bed. I felt like I was lying in a sheet of snow, even though I wore my day clothes and my coat. The mattress squeaked and groaned to accompany the vibrations of my body, distracting me from sleep.

I continued working, although I always felt tired, and was shouted at more and more frequently for making mistakes. Still, I kept going. I coped with the stench of burning fat and rude, harsh demands for food, working as hard as I could.

I even worked on the last day. My red, boiling body was layered with sweat and grease, which was _wrong _because it should have been scented with roses and enveloped in cool, yellow silk. I was supposed to be taking my final bow on a stage before the bellows of an audience, not counting out coins at a cash register and listening as a tramp he described his dead dog.

I wasn't really listening to Charlie. Instead, I saw my face –

I saw myself beaming up - my cheeks were big and rosy - at my mother's shining, scarlet lips –

Scowling at strangers who tried too hard to be kind to me because they had heard the news –

Glaring down at my newborn brother's wrinkled face as he slept in his cot –

My legs started trembling, suddenly too weak to support me. They jerked forward suddenly, and I crashed down onto my knees with a loud, ugly thud. I remained conscious for a few seconds, and was vaguely aware of a set of hands grabbing my shoulders and shaking me, but I didn't remain awake for long and passed out even as a stranger asked, "What's wrong?"

When I came to, Stuart was crouched besides me. He pressed a dripping flannel against my forehead, his face had creased into a deep-set frown. When he saw that my eyes were opening, he cried out, "Are you okay? What happened?"

"I didn't feel very good; it's nothing bad, seriously. I'm fine now." I raised my head slowly, and looked around. The café was empty, and when I turned my head towards the door, the flip sign read _Open_. "Oh, Stuart. You shouldn't have closed the shop," I said in dismay. He'll kill us."

"He won't if he doesn't find out." Stuart grinned at me and I managed a feeble smile back. He was so kind; his friendship was probably the most valuable thing I had.

I insisted that I was fine, but was ignored. Stuart grabbed my hand and led me outside to his ancient, metallic patchwork of a car, shepherding me inside,

"Where do you live?" he asked as he pulled into the street, straining his head back to check the road. I told him the name of the street, and he nodded, commenting, "I know it. Do you really walk to work? It must take you an hour."

"It did at first, but I found short-cuts. It only takes me thirty minutes now."

"What are you? An Olympic runner?"

I laughed and shook my head "Hell no! You wouldn't believe how chubby I was a few years ago; I used to get teased like crazy." It made a cute, humanizing story. The fact that it was a lie didn't seem to matter.

He turned his head towards me briefly, scrutinizing me "I can't even begin to imagine what a fat you would look like. You're so damn skinny; it's amazing you didn't get blown away in the storm last Saturday."

"Oh, shut up!" I giggled, shocked I could be made happy so easily.

Before long, beads of rain struck the windscreen, only a few of them at first but soon barraging the car in their thousands, and I had to shout to Stuart over the sound of their strikes "Hey! Are you sure you're okay driving in this?" I looked ahead of me, gasping when I realized the windscreen was distorted by rain. "Can you even see?"

"It's fine; don't worry." The windscreen wipers groaned as they slowly forced their way through the rain, not making the slightest bit of difference.

I soon realized I was glad for the rain. I had no desire to see the front of my hotel, mainly because the thought of sinking further into depression didn't seem particularly appealing. I wouldn't have minded if Stuart hadn't stopped driving, the pouring rain would never ceasing. Then I would never have to leave.

But the car stopped after a few more minutes, and the hammering rain quieted down. Stuart turned to me, prompting me to look away and stare straight ahead. "Alice, are you sure you're okay?" He sounded worried, confused even. "Do you want me to stay?"

I have never wanted to nod more in my entire life. I wanted to launch myself across the car and embrace him, I wanted to cling to him and for him to cling to me back. I wanted him to be Burt Lancaster to my Deborah Kerr, kissing passionately as our bodies were scorched by sun-baked sand. But I didn't move. I just continued to stare at the raindrops as they slipped down the windscreen.

Should I say yes? Should I? He'll understand – if I explained – I'm sure he would. We could run away, be safe, hide –

Even as I considered it, I knew I was being ridiculous. I'd run away four weeks before, and doing so had achieved nothing. I'd wasted four weeks that I could have spent with my family; the most important days of my life were gone. I didn't stand a chance. And Stuart? Well, he'd probably be killed, and I didn't want that; I liked the poor guy too much to get his throat sliced open.

There was nothing left for me but waiting.

So, I displayed a small, reassuring smile, and said: "I'll be fine, don't worry. I've just been working too hard. You wait, a few days and it will be like nothing was ever wrong." I laughed awkwardly.

He didn't laugh or smile back. Instead, he thrust a hand into his pocket and produced a torn receipt and a pen. He turned to me briefly, quipping, "Always be prepared." He smirked, and I managed to force out a confused smile in return. He placed the paper on the dashboard and scribbled something down before passing it to me. He told me "It's my number. If you have any problems, just find a phone. Reverse charges if you have to, just call me."

"Thank you." My voice shook. I leaned across the car, and placed a superficial kiss on his cheek, speaking more smoothly the second time. "I'll call."

I didn't give him chance to react, opening the door on my side of the car and climbing out. He stared at me, bewildered, through the rain-streaked windscreen. I smiled at him again and offered a small, stiff wave before turning around and walking calmly up the stairs to my hotel. I didn't look back; I figured that would be the kindest way.

I climbed up the stairs to my room silently, save for the obnoxious creaks of the bare, decaying staircase and the cough-afflicted chatter of the landlady, who was jabbering away to a friend below me.

Getting inside my room was a relief. Once inside, I bolted my door, stripped, then yanked my warm, recently acquired nightdress over my head and down my body. Then, I went to bed, holding the covers close to me as I closed my eyes.

Everything felt surreal. I was in a strange room hundreds of miles away from my family with only a few hours left to live. Everything was going to end, but that hadn't really sunk in. I was disappointed when I opened my eyes again; I had hoped the scenery would change.

Halfway through the afternoon, I climbed out of bed and made myself a generously-buttered ham and cheese sandwich. As I chewed it (back in bed), I read the first few pages of _Wuthering Heights_. I had meant to start it months before, but hadn't found the time. I was bored of it by the time I had finished the sandwich; the blurb had lied to me, I could see no trace of a free-spirited Cathy or a brooding, conflicted Heathcliff. I had just read four pages about a dull, unremarkable man's struggle to find a place to stay. I put it down on the floor, grunting in annoyance when I stumbled over it as I took my crumb-covered plate back to the kitchen downstairs.

When I got back to my room, I sat down on the bed and looked out of the window. It had started raining heavily again and I couldn't see the view. It took me a few seconds to remember what the view was, and decide that losing it wasn't much of a loss. Looking out onto rows and rows of dilapidated houses and bleak, grassless lawns wasn't going to lift my mood.

I thought about my family and wondered if they missed me. I was sure they would: Dad would snap at everyone and fidget to disguise how frightened he was, Toby would sob and squeeze Lancelot in his arms and Irene would order Dad to calm down. I wondered if my mother was even aware I had gone, and whether Jeremy would remember me. I hoped he would, but guessed he was too busy with meetings at cocktail bars and conversations with his witty, eccentric friends.

I wanted to call home and tell Dad not to worry, that I loved him. I would have ordered him to pass the phone to Toby so I could say the same to him. I didn't, of course. I would only be lying.

It didn't take very long for it to get dark, and when I checked my watch I realized it was nine; three hours left. I left the room again and made myself some coffee. I drank it in the kitchen then immediately made some more, gulping it down as fast as my body could take it. I wasn't going to let myself fall asleep. I spent most of the evening hurrying from my room to the kitchen, to the bathroom, and back again, determined to be quick. For one evening, coffee and time became my obsessions.

Fear, in its undiluted form, hit me at eleven-thirty. Everything was silent and dark, and I didn't like that. I wanted to hear a drunken shout or a mindless giggle, something to remind me I wasn't alone. I walked downstairs to the kitchen and pulled the cutlery drawer open, removing the largest knife I could find. I wasn't a fool. I did not intend to face my enemy with no protection other than my nightgown.

I returned to my room, and pulled on my bathrobe. I couldn't have been thinking properly, because I didn't get dressed. I could only think about the present, and ten minutes before midnight my primary concern was keeping myself warm.

The closer it got to midnight, the harder it became for me to make out the hands of my watch. I couldn't focus, the room started looking vague and indistinct, like I was viewing it through a mist. I pressed my hand over my brow; it came away covered with hot, sticky sweat. I swore in agitation, and rushed downstairs to the bathroom, splashing water over my face. I felt feverish again by the time I returned to my room, boiling hot and sick.

I sat down on bed and groaned, placing my heads in my hands. I couldn't cope with it; I just couldn't bear the pain, and pulled my whole body onto the bed to rest. I was sure a lie down would help me recover.

Without meaning to, I closed my eyes.

Within a minute, I was asleep.

…

…

…

…

….

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!


	9. Castles in the Sky

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, her family or the Labyrinth. Owning the Labyrinth would be nice, but it's simply not realistic. Can you imagine how long it would take to weed the flower beds. The poem at the start isn't mine either, I'm afraid.  
**

**Still, isn't it all rather tragic?**

Chapter Nine: Castles in the Sky

_Out in the dark_

_I stood so still-_

_Like a bit of the door_

_Or the window sill-_

_So still, they could hardly_

_Think of me._

Eleanor Farjeon. Nearly

The next thing I knew, I was outside, running in the dark. The rain had cleansed my body of sweat but my fever remained, burning through every part of my body except my feet: they were numb from cold and bloody, ripped open by the street. Rain fell heavy and thick, making my soft, flannel bathrobe weighty and stiff; I felt like I was encased in armor.

I should never have fallen asleep; sleep let nightmares in, nightmares filled with pain and death. There was nothing left in them. Nothing at all.

Cold and exhaustion slowed me down and replaced my fever's trembles with their own. I kept on walking, limping without rest. I couldn't afford comfort. My nightmares acted like spurs – they dug into my flesh, made my body bleed – and I would do anything to stop them.

Exhaustion finally made me pause just below a faulty lamp that buzzed and flickered, panting in an effort to regain some air. I looked ahead of me. Everything in my line of vision was dark and that was why I saw him. He was at the end of the road, standing right in the middle as if daring a car to try to plough him down. He was illuminated somehow despite there not being any working lights at his end of the street. That seems slightly ridiculous now, but at the time the effect was utterly terrifying.

I didn't know what to do. I just stared at him, noting every detail. He was dressed entirely in black – his body seemed like an extension of the sky – so that the only part of him I could make out clearly was his stark white face. He was smiling at me – not a mocking or sarcastic smile but one of genuine happiness. That smile frightened me more than anything else.

He addressed me before I had the chance to say a word: "Sarah." The word carried over the distance. His voice was filled with wonder.

I cried in alarm, "Don't! Don't say my name!" Afraid, I thrust my hand into the pocket of my bath-robe to pull out my knife. I panicked when I couldn't find it, then realized I had left it behind in my room.

He started pacing towards me the instant I responded, and I backed away hastily, not turning around because I didn't want to lose sight of him. He came into sharper focus with every step, and with every second I noticed something new. There was more silver in his hair than there had been before, although his face didn't show any indication of being worn or wrinkled: his skin looked smooth and pure. But something in his expression had changed; his smile had been replaced by a frown. He started shaking his head slowly, and moved his lips. I didn't hear what he said to me.

My breathing quickened, and I backed away more quickly, keeping my eyes fixed on him. All I could think about was what he had done, our terrible, sordid past.

Then, all of a sudden, he disappeared. I froze, unable to bear the thought of looking around me. I tried to delude myself into thinking I had no desire to find him – I loathed his appearance, you see – but I was unable to suppress a fervent, hankering desire to see his face again, to know where he had gone to. My breath caught in my throat when he spoke besides my ear "You can't order me, _Sarah_." He placed special emphasis on my name, and I turned around so I could observe him. "I'm afraid your words have lost all their power," he paused to assess my face, displaying a tiny smile when he took note of my irritation "Doesn't that make you feel wretched?"

I spun around and looked him in the eye. His smile had melted into a thin, mocking smirk.

Reflexively, I reached my hand towards his face. It stopped just before making impact; a strong, binding force held it stationary in the air. No part of me could move, my face was a twisted, hating mask, and every muscle in my body was rigid and tense. My lungs felt empty, and I couldn't feel my heart. All of the pain had been drained from my body, but I wanted it back. I wanted to know I was still alive.

He didn't move but stood still, assessing me. His eyes dwelled on my face, and after a few seconds he frowned, reaching for my hair. He ran his fingers through its damp, stringy length, murmuring "What have you done?" as he pressed a piece of it between two of his fingers, He moved his eyes over the rest of me more quickly, perhaps realizing how long he had spent gazing at my face. His features softened, blurring momentarily before becoming re-defined by pity. Seeing my water-logged clothes and clammy hands must have made him understand, as much as he is capable of understanding anyway.

He looked at me again, and after we had exchanged relentless stares for a minute I convinced myself he was going to lean forward and kiss me. His proximity, his looks, his vile, demeaning pity; all of them made a kiss seem imminent. I felt slightly perturbed when he didn't move, and was overwhelmed by shock when I felt my chest heave forward to inhale air. A small cry leapt out of my throat, and I bent forward – he moved back fluidly, allowing me space – greedily sucking in the ice-cold air. My body was free.

When I spoke, I spoke in anger "What did you just do to me?" I demanded, shouting so I didn't have to sound afraid.

"Nothing more than what I am entitled to do."

"Just answer the question!"

He released a long suffering sigh, "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah – _really_. I stopped you out of necessity; you were going to carry out an act of unprovoked and entirely unjustified violence. Can you truly say that was wrong of me?"

"Necessity? An ordinary man would just grab my wrist to stop me" I illustrated, sending my hand through the air and grabbing the offending arm by the wrist just before it could hit its imaginary target. "See? Even I can do it; you didn't have to do what you did. I felt," I faltered. "I felt –"

"Dead?" he suggested.

I glared at him, "Yes, you could say that. You made me feel_ dead_. There – is that what you wanted?"

He shrugged elegantly. "I desired to punish you. You were a bad girl, greeting me with a slap."

I threw up my arms in frustration. "You're angry about that? About my wanting to hurt you? Can you really blame me? How the hell did you expect me to react? Did you think I'd smile? Shake your hand? _Kiss you_?"

He darted his gaze towards me, to my great pleasure his face had contorted in irritation. "Of course not. You, my dear, are not a well behaved girl. I expected you to behave as you did. But undesirable actions and desires still need to be corrected."

My hand struggled to keep itself still. I yearned to try again, to leave a long, red mark across his sunken, colorless cheek. As I considered it, his lips quirked into a little smile and I realized that he knew exactly what I wanted to do. I balled my fist, glaring at the glistening concrete below me.

"So, dear –"

I cut in irritably, "I am not your _dear_."

He shook his head patiently, "Now, now, dear. Let's not forget our manners." I cringed. "Tell me, Sarah, have you been . . . happy?"

"What?"

"Deaf _and_ defiant – how terrible." He smiled, appreciating his own joke. I was becoming uncomfortably aware that his smile was not fading, and wondered why he was so happy, so assured.

Then I remembered. I dropped my head, damning myself for thinking. When I recovered, I raised my head and looked at him. "Look, just answer me. What do you care whether I was happy or not?" I paused, trying to think of a way to clarify. "You don't care about things like that." I added, cringing at my own ineffectuality.

He laughed slightly and shook his head. "An assumption. Tell me, do you really know anything about me? Anything that you didn't find in your precious little book?"

I turned away sharply, crushing my hands together and scraping the thumb of one across the surface of the other. He'd trapped me. I didn't have the first idea about him – his nature, background, motivations – all of them were mysteries. "Look," I blurted out quickly; "I've been as happy as I could have been, under the circumstances. That's all you need to know."

"That doesn't sound like the answer of a happy girl." The proximity of his voice alarmed me. I spun around and jumped back, shaking my head wildly as I nearly ran into him. "Don't do that!" I exclaimed. My heart battered the interior of my chest persistently; my breaths sounded pained.

"Why, whatever do you mean?" He smiled at me pleasantly, taking several steps closer.

I inclined my head at his boots as they crossed the distance between us. "That! I mean that!" I hurried back again, even though it was plain one his steps could cross the same distance as two of mine. "Don't come near me!" I insisted, my voice tinged by mania.

He mirrored my blind, stuttering steps, laughing before saying, "You must stop shouting, dear. Think of the neighbors. We might be heard."

I stopped, gaping at him. His playfulness was unbearable; he treated everything like a huge, riotously funny joke. He was crippled by an inability to take what was happening – _what has happened already _– seriously.

I threw my hands up into the air with a shriek. "Fuck the neighbors!" I shouted so loudly my eardrums shook. "Stop this. Just stop it. This is crazy! Everything is! Everything is wrong, all wrong!" To my horror, tears slithered out of my eyes. I turned away instantly, rubbing them furiously and gulping helplessly.

For a long time, the only sound was of my sniffing. Finally, he murmured "You're right."

"What?"

"This_ is_ wrong. We shouldn't be here, Sarah. And you shouldn't be crying." He offered his hand, smiling at me warmly. "Take it. Everything will be better then, I assure you."

I didn't need to think to answer him, "No," I said, my voice steady again.

His smile slipped into a frown. "Now, now, don't be fickle. You say things here aren't right, and yet you refuse me when I offer to change them for you." He sighed. "Look around you: it is cold, bleak, and miserable here. The entire place is thoroughly depressing."

"You're wrong" I murmured my reply softly, shaking my head. I liked it this place; it was reassuringly solid in its ugliness. Fear had made me realize that I loved reality unconditionally. "I know where I stand here, I know where things are, and I know what to expect. I'm not going to leave."

"That decision is no longer yours."

"Well, I won't come with you willingly, I'm not some stupid kid, you can't make me –"

"But I can," he interrupted, pinning me to the spot with his stare. As soon as I could, I averted my eyes. "These games annoy me more than they amuse. Come with me. End this, make things right again." He offered his hand again and snarled in frustration when I turned away in silence.

I looked up at the rain-flecked light that poured out of the lamp, and after a few seconds I smiled to myself. When I turned back to him, my bottom lip was quivering and I sniffed pathetically. "Jareth?"

He took a while to answer. "Yes?" He sounded curiously gentle, and I decided to take my act further.

I glanced down and picked at my nails anxiously. "What will it be like for me, in the Labyrinth? My nightmares won't become real there, will they?" I inclined my head to one side, making my big, green eyes bulge out imploringly.

My act faltered slightly when he took hold of my hand, and I looked down at it as he toyed with it, rubbing a finger gently over my thumb. He treated me with extraordinary delicacy, like a cracked china doll. "Nightmares are fabrications, dear," he soothed. "They exaggerate matters, play up to your fears and are, in most cases, nothing to be afraid of." He leaned closer; his hot breath blasted my cheek with warmth, making me realize that my skin was stingingly cold, like freshly cut ice. I looked immediately in front of me, noticing the strikingly white puffs of air that left my mouth.

My breathing speeded up, and I tugged sharply at my hand. I was too afraid to care about acting; I wanted to go inside, to swallow a hot drink and rest my head against a soft, feather packed pillow. "Wait," I cried. "If the dreams meant nothing, why did I have them? Dreams always have causes, don't they?" He tightened his grip on my hand, saying nothing. "But they must mean something!" I insisted, pulling at my hand again. He constricted it painfully. "Let me go!" I demanded. "Let me go!"

He ignored me, murmuring, "Some questions lack answers." He moved his hand quickly, trying to grab my free one. I moved it behind my back instantly, fearfully. He smiled at me. "Give me your other hand, Sarah. It is time for us to leave."

I shook my head fiercely and tugged at my hand, amazed he could sound so calm. Very suddenly, he released my hand and I staggered backwards. Pulling myself together, I retreated further back with small, careful steps, still shaking my head. "No, I can't. I can never go with you."

He was silent, his expression inscrutable. I pleaded with him again: "What will it take to make you understand—"

He interrupted, "Poor dear." My eyes narrowed at his endearment, and I observed him suspiciously.

I hurried backwards skittishly when he offered me his hand "Are you mad?" I snapped. "After I just got it back?"

He ignored my appeal to logic completely. "You are frightened, I know. But what have I told you? There is nothing to fear, nothing to be frightened of. Your nightmares never need to become real." I hesitated. Even though it was a blatant lie, his offer was strangely enticing. I wanted to believe him.

Suddenly, his hands shot forward, groping for mine. "What the hell are you doing?" I cried, staggering away in horror. His breaths were loud and strained, the muscles in his face contracting and relaxing rhythmically. I recoiled in disgust when I noticed his eyes, I had seen the expression before; he wanted me.

I didn't attempt to appeal to him again, turning and breaking into a run. I screamed in pain upon taking the first harsh, heavy step; the concrete shredded the thick, hard skin of my already torn soles, making them bleed again. But I didn't stop. The bumps in the road felt like needles as my feet pounded against them, but I disciplined my senses and ignored the pain.

I registered the steady click-click-click of his boots behind me, used the sounds to measure my distance from him. The audible distance between us comforted me at first, but his steps became louder and my breaths degenerated into wheezing pants. My steps were faltering; his were quickening. I was riveted by the sounds of him stalking me, by the knowledge that I hadn't a chance. Terror bred an intense, debilitating fascination with my own tragedy, my own inevitable future of tears and pain.

Then, suddenly, the noises stopped. Everything was silent. Bewildered, I stopped too.

Something grabbed me from behind, and I lurched backwards. I thought I would crack my skull on the road, but my body was supported by a pair of long, stiff arms. I gasped in shock as I was lifted a few inches off the feet, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the hands clamped around my waist. My heart raced as his fingers slid in regular moments over my robe, forcing me to remember. I closed my eyes, shivering. Fear petrified me, and I was as still as his lips passed quietly over my dripping-wet hair.

I started thrashing, kicking his legs frantically with my feet and twisting my arms backwards to try and scratch his face. I shrieked, tried to shock him into dropping me, but he didn't even acknowledge me. His body was tense and his moves minute: mussing my hair with his face, sliding his fingers down my neck, subtly increasing the pressure of his hold around my waist. Momentarily, I stopped shrieking, gasping in shock. I couldn't help but marvel at his strength; he held me up with one arm, and it neither shook nor slipped. When he tightened his grip again, I launched into a scream.

Every fresh scream grew hoarser, more of a strain on my parched throat. Eventually my cries became fragile and thin, barely audible. There could have been someone walking along the next block, and they wouldn't have heard me. They would never have realized something was wrong.

I stopped screaming. I listened quietly to my wheezing breath, and allowed my arms to sag against my sides. I went limp and started slipping; I had stopped caring about petty things like self-control. If he wanted me, he could hold onto me. Either that or he could drop and let me crumple in a puddle, uncaring of the rain which drenched my clothes and body.

He did let me drop, keeping his arm around my middle. I sank onto the ground and he sank with me, crouching behind me.

My legs didn't make a sound as they hit concrete, and my head lolled back against his shoulder. I kept my eyes wide open, staring out with quiet wonder at a shining yellow puddle in the road. The water reflected the light of the lamp, making the dirty, water-logged patch of the concrete shimmer like molten gold. It was beautiful. Looking at it made my eyes well up with tears.

"There is no reason to cry," he soothed. "Don't feel afraid. Poor, poor Sarah." He reached for one of my hands, clutching it in his before continuing: "How cold you are. Are you hurt? Are you in pain?" I strained my head back and opened my mouth, forming words with my lips without making a sound. His expression relaxed, and he moved his hand to my face, stroking my cheek with a finger. "Poor thing. Don't try to talk."

Despite my lethargy, the corners of my lips turned up at the irony.

He raked his fingers through my hair. I yelped as he tried to pass his hand through a thick, intricate tangle and his hand froze.

I felt like a sick pet, inarticulate and helpless. All I could think of was of the injustice of it all. I should have been at home, fast asleep in my bed. I would have woken up before everyone else because it was my birthday, and run downstairs, too excited to stay put. I would have gobbled down breakfast so fast I almost choked, and downed my coffee so quickly it burned my throat. Then Irene and Dad would have appeared. Irene would have kissed me politely on the cheek and Dad would have held me tight against his chest and wished me a happy day.

My mind stopped wandering when I heard people speaking – coarse-voiced strangers. At first, I thought the sounds were products of my loneliness. I had imagined voices before as a kid. After a bad day I would hide in my room and lie flat out on my bed, closing my eyes and wishing I had a friend to comfort me. If I concentrated hard enough, my wish would come true. On one occasion, Lancelot had leapt down from his home on my shelf and approached me stiffly, patting my head with his mangy paw and saying, "Cheer up, Sarah." He had a wise, comforting voice. "Daddy's just had a bad day, I'm sure that's the problem. Everything will be all right tomorrow. Here, have a hug." He had hugged me with his magically extended arms, making my tense face burst into a smile. When I had woken up the following morning, Lancelot was with me underneath my covers.

I only started considering that the voices might be real when they became louder.

I raised my head, and in the distance I made out an area of the street that was composed of dark, moving shadows. I wasn't sure what direction they were moving in at first, but after a few moments I realized they were coming closer. I started out picking fragments of the conversation – "Did you see that douche-bag Frankie? Christ" . . . "I'm amazed he can walk" . . . "Maria is such a dirty bitch. She probably did it with his dad" – that were just audible over the obnoxious laughs of other people in the group. Their voices thrilled me, and I struggled to pull my body forward in an effort to extract myself from his arms.

"Hey!" I shouted. My voice was shrill but clear. "Help me! Help me! Listen, please!"

"Stop," he hissed.

I didn't, I just continued to fight him. Squirming and shouting to the people as loudly as I could. He didn't let me go, and attempted to clamp a hand over my mouth. I twisted my head so violently his hand slipped and he didn't try to smother my words again, allowing me to shout.

They were moving away – down the wrong street – and I quickened my pace in an effort to catch them up. I kept on shouting, my voice more strained and desperate than before. "Help me! Please, come back! Help me!" I pulled my arms free and straining them out, vainly trying to reach the people.

They were soon nearly beyond my view, and I started screaming out of desperation. They kept on going. One of them stumbled and fell onto the floor and a roar of laughter muffled my screams. They continued tittering, the sounds of their amusement fading as they turned a corner and moved out of sight. Within a minute, every trace of them had gone.

I was alone again.

I stared at the dark hole they had disappeared into. The lamp at the end of their street had broken, so the shadows there were thick and inky. I was completely motionless in Jareth's arms, I felt like a sagging, floppy headed rag doll.

When I had taken my fill of darkness, I twisted my head around to gaze at his collar. It was made out of white silk. A stylized diamond pin shaped like an owl with two black sapphires for eyes was pinned in the middle of it; the eyes glinted slightly when Jareth turned his head.

"Why didn't they see us?" I asked, continuing to stare at the owl. "Why didn't they hear me?"

As I spoke I fabricated answers to my questions. It had been the magic; he had made me invisible and robbed my voice of its potency. Then again, maybe he had done something to the men –

"You would rather not know."

I laughed mirthlessly, dropping my head and shaking it calmly. "But I do. Tell me."

"Sarah –"

I jerked my eyes up, glaring at him. "Tell me!"

He looked away sharply, his face creased in concentration. The dramatic change in his face robbed him of his eerie perfection. He looked aged and worn, his shadowed eyes and lined face made his weariness seem earthier, less removed from humanity.

I started when he answered, speaking quietly "You have ceased to exist here, Sarah. Your two years have gone. You never bothered to negotiate terms; do not blame me for your own carelessness."

I was amazed he could sound so calm, and opened my mouth to deny the truth of what he had just said. In the end, I only managed a gasp. After a few moments I closed my mouth, looking out onto the road in an effort to forget I was held in his arms. I stared at the concrete intently, but there weren't any shimmering, golden pools for me to gaze at, only darkness. I listened carefully, hoping to hear a twittering bird or a rowdy dog, but only registered the slow, deliberate sound of his breathing.

He had finally won. Did that had made him happy? I turned my head to look at him again. His expression seemed oddly neutral at first, but after giving it careful consideration I realized the strange shape of his lips was an attempt at pity.

"You shouldn't look so bleak, Sarah," he murmured, inclining his head to kiss my cheek and moving a hand into my hair. "You will never be lonely; you will never be bored. You will always have me."

His reassurances made me wince; rage bubbled up inside me and I started to struggle, squirming as much as I could while caged within his arms. "No." I protested. "This isn't real. You're lying! You have to be lying!" I tried to dislodge the fingers that had forced their way into my hair by tossing my head wildly from side to side -- but they held fast.

A minute later, I addressed him again, whispering out of exhaustion, "You weren't lying, were you?"

He didn't say anything, and that told me all I needed to know.

I tried to come to terms with what had happened by giving a voice to my understanding of it: "You've cut me off from everyone I love. I'm never going to see them again, am I? Never again, I'll never see them again –"

"But you will not _need_ them, Sarah," he interrupted. "They are nothing to you now; they are the past. Calm down; there is no reason in your fear of me. I will never hurt you –"

I cut him off. "Never hurt me?" I scoffed. "It's far too late for you to claim that!"

After a moment he replied "You interrupted me. I was about to say that I will never hurt you as long as you obey. You need to be good, that is all I ask of you. Obey me, and I will be kind."

"That doesn't mean a thing. Let me go, just let me go!" I struggled again, only for him to hold me more tightly. Enraged I shifted my body, lunging forward to try and bite his face.

He held me back from him easily, and I snapped at the air. "But where would you go?" He mocked.

"Anywhere – as long as it's away from you. I can get by – I can stay here. I can." I continued to struggle, pushing my arms outwards.

He smiled down at me and my middle, pinning my arms to my sides. When he had squeezed them tightly enough to make them go numb, he released his hold on me. One of his hands traveled to my throat, settling around it and caressing the lump it found there. His strokes gradually became more insistent, culminating when he dug a finger deep into the dip at the bottom of my throat. I spluttered and wheezed, but he only removed the finger when my eyelids flickered and I began to sway in his arms.

"But you can't," he informed me as I gasped. He sounded very bored. "Give up; there is nothing left here for you to fight for. You have lost. Accept it."

I just kept on breathing harshly, my chest heaved as I allowed myself to calm down. "Well, if that is the case," I spoke slowly and thoughtfully, looking straight ahead "I would rather stay here and die."

"Don't say such things." He sounded pleasantly alarmed.

Smiling to myself, I clarified, "Go. Please, go and let me die. That way you've won; you'll win the instant I stop breathing. It won't take long; I've been bleeding for a while now, and I'm cold as well; that's never good. Leaving me is the kindest way, trust me. Then again, I guess you don't want the kindest way for me, do you? Oh dear. . . ." I started giggling uncontrollably.

He frowned at me in disapproval. "You should not joke about such things."

"You have a really poor sense of humor, don't you?" I giggled to myself, the little laughs occasionally catching in my throat.

"You are wasting out time – stop this. We must leave, now. You are cold –" he inclined a sweeping hand towards my feet, "And bleeding."

"Oh, but I don't mind that at all. My feet have been bleeding for around an hour now; I've stopped noticing." My giggles slowly graduated into open laughter.

"Stop."

I laughed louder, throwing my head back with the force of my hysteria. I opened my mouth, loving the feel of the light, insubstantial rain that fell into it from the sky.

"I told you to stop!" he shouted at me, twisting my whole body around forcefully so I could see his stare. "Listen to me, you fool! You are only making yourself miserable."

Clutching me by the sides, he stood up, raising me as well. His hands moved from my sides to my shoulders, and he started shaking me roughly. I just kept laughing. I laughed even louder when I realized that his face had tightened in despair.

My laughs were distorted by the wild swings of my head, but no amount of force on his part was capable of shutting me up. I found his face endlessly amusing, his various expressions of despair and frustration fascinated me. I had reduced him to the level of a sulking child.

Eventually, my inane laughter began to fade. I stared at him intently in the silence, curious to see what his reaction to my silence would be. He didn't look frightened, which was quite disappointing. Rather, he looked confused.

"Why do you do keep on fighting me?" he asked, frustrated. "What will it take to appease you? What do you want? Presents? Attention? Love?" I started at his mention of that word, and his voice softened. "Is that what you want? Love?"

I concentrated all of my hatred into my eyes, smiling as I stared at him. "No. I never want to be loved. Not by you. I'd sooner stab myself through the heart."

I gazed at him defiantly, following the emotions that fought for expression on his face. His anger receded, he replaced it with a minute smile. He leaned his head forward, and kissed me.

The kiss was a strange mix of sensations and emotions. It thrilled me while it disgusted, soothed my nerves as it charged them with terror. Most frightening of all was its tenderness: there was no greed or cruelty in the kiss, only warmth and appreciation. Gradually, I realized that I was enjoying it. The panicking fear and the horror began to ebb away. I responded, clutching the sides of his face, urging him to continue.

Exhilaration was swiftly overwhelmed by immense exhaustion. My legs weakened, trembling uncontrollably and I fell, breaking the kiss. He caught me and held me up.

Both of us gasped and panted. I beamed up at him. "Thank you."

His face broke into a smile, and I widened mine in acknowledgement. I was flooded with disappointment when he looked down, removing his face from my view. His eyes focused on my waist. I watched as he was put his hands around my middle, supporting me.

My mind was fogged by fairytale wonder. I thought of being kissed by a prince and hoisted up onto his horse, of riding off into the exquisite golden sunset and living forever in our castle in the clouds. My heart raced; it was all coming true. Where was the stately white horse with a ribbon-plaited mane and the turreted castle in the sky?

Impatiently, he drew my head back from his shoulder so he could scatter kisses over my face. His mouth passed over my unnaturally warm cheeks, my snow-white brow, and my lightly closed eyes. I loved his attention and allowed myself to luxuriate in it, rewarding him by stroking his angled cheek with my crooked, cold-stiffened fingers.

He addressed me in a breathless murmur. "You like my kisses, don't you?" I nodded languidly, and felt a smile break against my hair. "Good girl. Stay as you are now, dear. Stay." I giggled; how silly he was for thinking he needed to ask!

Before long, he addressed me again: "Tell me what you want." there was a strange urgency in his voice, and he grabbed the hand that I had rested on his cheek "Tell me, and I will give it to you, I swear it. Say it; that is all you have to do."

I poked my tongue out of my mouth in concentration. I was tempted to ask for a necklace I had seen a catalogue once; it had been composed of sapphires discs the size of milk-bottle tops and pearls as big as marbles. But there were other things I wanted as well: a honey colored dress with a swamping skirt, a glittering, ruby headed staff endowed with magic. Somewhere in the back of my head, a timid voice requested roses and a stage. An even shyer one suggested that a warm bed would be lovely.

I was plagued by indecision. I didn't want to choose; I wanted to ask for everything. So that – understandably - was what I decided to do.

As I returned my attention to my physical reality, I realized he was kissing my ear and speaking. I frowned. I didn't like missing out in his beautiful, loving words. They were always heartfelt and touching; they made my heart thrill.

He murmured on, aggravating me with the softness of his voice. His fingers rubbed the cloth over my ribs, lingering. I gasped suddenly at his touch; spikes of cold passed from his hands, pricking my skin like needles. I shivered, disturbed by the chill in his touch.

He spoke again, his voice stark and manic. "Your choice, dearest, make it soon. You will be happy then. Just say the words. Tell me what you want." He forced a hand into my hair, and I had to resist an impulse to jerk my head away from it.

Happy seemed to be the only word he had said that meant anything. It was one of the few things he had said that I knew meant something. I tried to apply it to my desires, thinking about whether any of the things I wanted would make me happy. I soon realized that all of them were flimsy, empty pleasures – none of them would give me anything more than a small spurt of happiness. I frowned and gazed uncertainly at the pink-tinged sky. Dawn would break in a few minutes.

Anger hit me like a blow; he had been trying to mislead me with his fingers and his kisses. What I had considered to be my desires hadn't been mine, really; he'd made me forget all of the things I really wanted.

His deception made me determined to set things right. I thought hard, deciding what it was I truly wanted. A picture formed in my head, and I smiled in triumph just before saying his name "Jareth?" I was quite surprised to realize his name was the only thing I knew about him.

"Yes?" He nuzzled my hair.

I squirmed uncomfortably, wishing he would go away. "I've decided what I want."

He pulled back, smiling down at me benevolently. "Well then, say it, and it will be done. Your wish is mine." Both his hands moved, settling around my middle.

My smile tightened into a frown, and I voiced my request slowly and precisely: "I want to go home. I want to go back and see Dad -- and my little brother, and my mom. Can you do that for me?" I lifted my eyes to his, crossing my fingers for luck as I took in his hard, forbidding face. "It's what I want, really it is."

He didn't reply. "You don't mind me asking that, do you?" I pressed, concerned.

All the color drained out of his face. "What?" he said, shocked.

"I asked if you minded, do you?"

"No, before that. What did you say you wanted?"

"To go home. Didn't you hear me?"

"What home? What home do you mean?" He spoke urgently.

I frowned, perplexed. "You mean you don't know? I'm talking about home, you must know it. Dad, Toby and Mom all live there. My room's there as well – it's ever so nice." I paused, furrowing my brow and thinking of something interesting to say. "Its walls are pink." He still looked shocked, and I pressed him. "Don't you remember?"

His hands fell away from my body instantly, as if I were on fire. He backed away with startled eyes. I felt different – strange and cold – without his body next to mine.

My head felt heavy and ached. I pressed a hand against it, muttering, "Christ, my head." I groaned, and took a few clumsy, uncoordinated steps.

He whipped upon hearing me, his eyes alive with fury. "Your head? You worry about your _head_?" He walked towards me rapidly, grabbing my wrist. He pulled at my arm, making me stumble as he led me away.

"Hey, let go. I'm hurt; I'm bleeding." I writhed desperately, whining, "Stop! You're hurting me!"

He tugged at my arm, prompting a small, anguished scream. "I mean to. Foolish girl! Foolish child!"

"It's not my fault that you're angry. Stop being horrible; give me what you said you would. Give me what I want!" He turned his head back to look at me, and I scowled at him bitterly.

He displayed a venomous smile. "Very well. Have your precious home. Enjoy it as much as you can; enjoy every second of happiness while it lasts." He raised his free arm, pointing towards the far end of the street. "It's there, Sarah. Can't you see it?"

I gasped in wonder as I saw what he was pointing to. My house was at the end of the block! He released my wrist, and I ran toward it, not bothering to answer Jareth.

My home looked beautiful, clean and cheerful. It was the antithesis of the slums that lined both sides of the road. I stumbled on, slowly at first, but soon breaking into an unhampered sprint. I was surprised; for some reason I had expected running to be painful.

Every step returned a memory to me. Dad's name was Robert. My brother's name was Toby. My mother's was Linda. Dad's favorite meal was spaghetti. Mother was addicted to _Vanity Fair_. Being away from Jareth made me feel clear-headed and relaxed, my jumbled memories were re-assembling themselves quickly: Dad was born in 1944, Mom in 1947. Merlin – our big, shaggy-haired dog – in 1978. Toby in 1985.

Out of breath, I reached the porch. I clutched one of the posts gladly, before moving forward a few feet and letting my whole body slump against the door. When I had recovered enough, I turned around and smoothed my hands over the whole length of the door, reassuring myself that it was solid. I felt like crying with relief as I set my hand around the handle, relishing the familiarity of its cool, metallic surface.

I glanced behind me for one last time before turning the handle, and gasped in surprise: the dark city streets were gone. The gloomy slums had been replaced by the bright, orderly neighborhood in which I had grown up, its roads and yards tinged with the yellow of the dawn. I looked for him, but he'd gone. I smiled discreetly, then turned around and opened the door.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the door hadn't been locked, and entered quietly. I climbed the stairs without a sound. I was tempted to check on everyone and reassure myself that they were all right, but eventually decided not to. I could wait a few more hours.

I slipped into my room and smiled in pleasure when I realized that nothing had changed. Even the papers on my desk looked just as messy and disorganized as they had when I had left them. I was thrilled; I could move on like the past month had never happened.

I was too tired to change, and clambered under the comforter as I was. I buried my head into my fresh, clean pillow. How wonderful it was to sleep with clean sheets again!

For the first time in a week, I didn't try stay awake to put off the nightmares. Instead, I fell to sleep within seconds of putting my head down on my pillow.

I slept without having a nightmare.

…

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If there any errors, please excuse them. Tired. Writing at 00:01. Will fix later.

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this, and to Yodeladyhoo for looking at the original version for me.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback!


	10. Seeming

**Veteran readers of this should notice that I have given the whole story a big overhaul, and I would appreciate reviews to learn whether or not the new incarnation of this story is an improvement. As an incentive, those who do leave reviews will receive a hint.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sarah, The Goblin King, or anything else to do with the film Labyrinth. All I own here is the story and the writing. Nor do I own the poem I have quoted from at the beginning of this chapter.**

**Tragic, isn't it?**

Chapter Ten: Seeming

_  
__All__ that we see or seem  
Is but a dream, within a dream._

Edgar Allan Poe. A Dream Within a Dream

Hands gripped me through a layer of thick fabric, shaking me violently. I stirred, slowly drawing my eyelids apart. Upon adjusting my eyes to the light, I saw the walls of my room and remembered that I had come home. I was free.

Irene hovered over me, her face creased with concern. She stroked my forehead with cool fingers, and the contrast between her frigid skin and my sweaty brow made me realize I had a fever. Very slowly, I sat up and looked around, causing Irene to back away a little.

I turned to the window first of all. The sun shone in and blinded me, and I shielded my eyes from it at first. Slowly, I moved my hand away and squinting at the old, sun-drenched tree that stood just outside my window. An invisible bird twittered cheerfully, its song was the only sound in the room. Irene had not said a word.

I was in far too much of a daze to care and turned my eyes to the various components of my room. I surveyed it quickly: pin-ups of Jon Bon Jovi and Tom Cruise eyed me rebelliously from the walls, a row of faceless books sat neat and neglected on my bookshelf, and my dresser was cluttered with papers, tubes of lipstick and hair bands. It couldn't possibly have looked more normal.

I turned back to Irene, who stared at me in total amazement and bewilderment. I got the impression she was struggling to accept my reality. That thought prompted a stab of fear. What if _she_ was not real? What if my surroundings – my messy room, Irene, the singing bird – were just illusions?

To test her solidity, I extended my right hand and touched her face. Although she moved back very slightly, she did not move out of reach. My fingers touched her pale, soft cheek and left faint impressions on her skin.

My eyes welled up with guilty tears; I felt ashamed for doubting my surroundings. Powder from her cheek whitened the tops of my fingers and the scent of the jasmine perfume she always doused herself in made me cough.

Without giving her the slightest warning, I flung my arms around her neck. In my enthusiasm, I almost dragged her down onto the bed with me. I embraced her fiercely, tightening my grip on her when she attempted to detach herself from my embrace. I had never considered the possibility of being happy to see her before, but I was more than happy; I was ecstatic.

I buried my head into her satin-covered shoulder, sobbing. I was amazed by the extent of my stupidity. How could I ever have thought running away would be the solution? I had spent my last allocated month on Earth wasting time. I had abandoned my dear, loving family for weeks of isolation and despair.

But then I remembered my victory, and smiled through my tears. I had time. I had tricked him into giving it to me. I loved that feeling of superiority; it delighted me. I wanted to laugh and mock him even though he wasn't there. I wanted to say something joyous and nonsensical to solidify the airy giddiness of my victory.

After a minute of deadlock, Irene managed to ease herself away. I looked at her with my big, sad eyes. I craved contact. I had to have someone to hold, someone I could cling to, whom I would not have to release. I felt an impulsive stab of hatred for her when she drew away, and had to bite my bottom lip to keep myself from begging for her to return.

She spoke to me from a short distance. I cannot remember the words; all I know is that she told me exactly how happy she was to see me. She told me how terribly I had been missed. Daddy had rung the police station the moment he had realized I was missing. My face had been featured on the local news station and on hundreds of posters in hundreds of shop windows. None of them were able to get to sleep on account of anxiety at first, and Daddy had only just returned to work. Toby had suffered the most. He had nightmares about me, and described them to his parents. In one of his dreams, a cruel man with a twisted face had told him he was never going to see his sister again. The wicked man had mocked Toby when he had tried to insist that he was lying, repeating what he had said before:

'You're sister is never coming home. You will never set your eyes on her again.' The bad man had shaken his head gravely. 'Never.'

Toby had had other nightmares. When he had learned that every door in the house was shut tightly before Irene and Dad went to bed, he had wept. He had insisted that I would return in the night and die of cold on the doorstep, inches away from safety. He had told them they were monsters.

Irene's revelations left me speechless and sick. They had suffered just as badly as I had, possibly even worse. I had barely considered them during my escapade.

As I looked up at Irene's exhausted face, I struggled to cope. I had never thought guilt would make me feel so wretched.

I couldn't think of anything worth saying. 'Sorry' seemed woefully inadequate. I could have said that word constantly for a hundred days and nights and it would not have made up for what I had done. But I said it anyway. I said it over and over again, recited it until my chant fell apart, reaching my arms out for Irene as I wept.

I cried into her blouse and she passed her hand over my head, shushing me kindly. She was not angry, even though I wanted her to be. She was calm and compassionate. I asked her why she was being so kind, why she didn't shout at me and scream. She laughed, saying that my return had made her far too happy to feel angry with me.

After a few minutes, I felt incredibly thirsty and asked Irene if she would get me a cup of water. She hurried downstairs and soon returned with a glass of lemonade. She held it to my lips at first, but I reassured her I was okay and drank it myself as she looked on, smiling approvingly as I gulped the lemonade down.

As soon as I had finished the drink, my interrogation began. Where did I go? Who did I stay with? Would I promise her that I would never, ever run away again?

She asked me dozens of questions and I obliged her curiosity by providing bland, believable answers. She nodded to acknowledge me and periodically squeezed my hand. Her gullibility made me guilty, so I started asking her some questions of my own.

Where was Toby? Where was Daddy? I sounded panicky and Irene shushed me, telling me Toby was at school and Daddy was at work. She would ring Daddy and tell him I was home. I kissed her on her cheek and thanked her over and over again for being so wonderful.

Soon afterwards, I threw the covers off and started getting out of bed. When I had successfully stood up – I was amazed that my feet didn't hurt – I looked down to see what I was wearing. I was in my flannel bathrobe, my pink nightie beneath it. I was suddenly reminded of the night before, and had a strange sense of being back in the cold, wet street I so wanted to ignore. I felt a paralyzing stab of fear and my breath hitched as a chill began setting in.

Shaking my head briskly to dismiss those thoughts, I turned to Irene, smiling. She promptly beamed back at me. I made my bed neatly, asking how she had been. She told me she had been fine and that the only thing her life had been missing was me. Instead of feeling nauseous, I felt touched.

I followed Irene closely when she went downstairs to ring Daddy. I was too nervous to stay with her when she phoned him, and ended up wandering around and exploring. I went into the kitchen and was delighted to see familiar dishes – a red mug I had given to Dad as a present on his fortieth birthday, a dinosaur bowl that Toby used for his cereal – besides the sink. Afterwards I hurried into the living room, which was just as unchanged and lived in as the kitchen had been. Everything looked gloriously normal.

I returned the hall afterwards, but stopped by the door. Irene had finally managed to reach Daddy at work.

After she had got the fact that I was home through to him, she said nothing for a little while and she gave no indication that anything was being said. From what I could gather, Irene's news had been met with silence. I hovered anxiously by the door, waiting for something to happen.

I exhaled heavily in relief when Irene started looking alert again, nodding and periodically saying 'yes.' When she was given the chance to speak she said that she would see him soon and reassured him she would ring the police station and let them know that I had come home.

"See you soon, honey. Love you. Bye." She ended the call.

Very quickly, she turned to me and told me what I already knew: Daddy was on his way home. Then she picked up the receiver again and phoned the police to let them know I had come home. After a brief conversation, she returned her attention to me, asking if I would like to come with her to pick Toby up from school. Beaming, I told her I would love to.

Before long, Irene and I were setting off. I chose to sit in the back for two reasons: firstly, I would get a good view of the route and secondly, I would be under less pressure to speak. Although Irene's kindness had given me a new appreciation for her, I could not bear the prospect of another barrage of questions.

I wound the window down and stuck my head out. Although all of the houses we passed all seemed identical at first, I started noticing differences as the journey progressed. Some of them had doors red or blue instead of white, others had primrose stuffed flowerboxes in their windows. We speeded past a despondent, sweaty-browed businessman, and a little further on a harassed, pram-pushing woman yelling something to a running child.

We arrived very quickly, and my heart sank when I got out of the car and saw that the playground was completely packed with parents and strollers. Irene and I battled our way through the crowds until we could see the entrance to the school. After a few minutes of inane conversation, the school doors were opened. Children of all shapes and sizes poured out of the building, their chatter and laughter deafening. To my intense annoyance, I felt the beginnings of a migraine.

There were hundreds of children and I scanned as many as I could, looking for Toby. I became disorientated and dazed, disheartened when I couldn't find him.

Ironically, I became aware of Toby first of all when I heard him say hello in his high, childish voice. When I turned around, Toby was hugging Irene around the waist. His face was buried into her stomach and all I could see was his mop of bright, blond hair.

Then, without warning, he turned around and looked straight at me. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes.

I studied him as I waited for him to react. He had grown slightly and that barely noticeable change terrified me. I wondered about the other things I had missed – what he had achieved at school and what friends he had had over to play. He had only just turned five and I had no idea what the memory of such a young child was like. Would he remember me, or would the passing of time have made me a stranger? I knew I would be heartbroken if he had forgotten, and wrung my hands together anxiously as he assessed me.

I gasped in delight when he ran towards me and hugged me. He sobbed into my blouse and mumbled indistinctly, digging his fingers into me so I couldn't move away. Overwhelmed by emotion, I started to cry as well and, gently removing his arms from my waist, bent down so my eyes were level with his.

He spoke to me, asking me broken questions whenever he managed to suppress his tears: "Where did you go, sis? Why did you go and leave me and Mom and Dad alone?"

I attempted to show him how sorry I was. I presented him with explanations that I suspected he was too intelligent to believe and, upon seeing his incredulous face, crushed him against my chest in a choking embrace. He cried into my shirt and I kissed his soft, golden head tenderly, murmuring apologies.

Both of us were entirely oblivious to the crowd. When I moved my gaze away from Toby's head I saw that a gang of mothers were watching us, their gazes reminiscent of vultures who have just seen meat. A few vacant-eyed children also looked on, gawping idiotically. I turned my eyes to Irene, who was busy glaring at them. She saw that I had got my emotions under control and, after I had disentangled myself from Toby, we all hurried back to the privacy of the car.

The car was blissfully silent until Toby began questioning me. I would have been angry and frustrated if my interrogator had been Irene, but as it was Toby I kept myself calm and gave him the best answers I could think of. He eyed me dubiously on occasion but, to my relief, seemed to accept most of what I had to say.

Eventually there was a lapse in our conversation, and I asked Toby what his day had been like. He immediately launched into a long account of what he had done at school. His class had been painting their favorite animals. Toby had painted a lion and produced his painting from his backpack. I heaped it with praise, making him beam with pride.

I was momentarily taken aback by how comfortable he was with me, but soon dismissed that worry. He was child, and like most children he was as adaptable as Play-Doh.

When we got back home Toby got out first and ran up the path, waiting for me and Irene impatiently by the door. As soon as Irene had unlocked the door, he grabbed my hand and dragged me up the stairs and into his room. Just like the kitchen and the living room, everything in his room matched up perfectly with my memory of it: His story books were stacked untidily against a wall, his blue and green striped duvet was piled on his bed, and Lancelot was next to his pillow. The only new object in the room was a brawny action figure that produced distorted sounds when you pressed a button on its back. Toby picked it up and showed it to me. I told him I thought it was wonderful.

While Toby returned the figure to its place, I wandered over to the bed and picked up Lancelot, stroking his careworn fur and smiling at him absently. I asked Toby if he still played with him, and was promptly told no, not really. He had to be careful with him because he was my favorite, he didn't want to risk damaging him. Lancelot had always been my favorite and discovering that Toby continued to cherish him made my smile spread.

Toby had found a few of his favorite figures and was playing with them on the floor, and after returning Lancelot to the bed I joined him. He was delighted to have someone to play with, and told me in a remarkably solemn voice that he was He-Man and I was his archenemy, Skeletor. I moved my action figure around mechanically while Toby enthusiastically simulated battle cries and repeatedly tried to knock my figure over, winning every time because I held it loosely.

I didn't pay much attention to the game; instead I listened to the sounds that came from downstairs. There wasn't much to hear apart from the distant slosh of water as Irene did the dishes, but I listened anyway. Toby's shouts made my head hurt and the gentle sounds of the dishwater were comparatively soothing. After a few minutes, I heard Irene empty the sink and turn the television on. I returned my attention to Toby; I had no desire to listen to one of her soap operas.

The game stopped instantly when Toby and I heard the front door open. We abandoned our respective roles and hurried downstairs.

I traced the quiet murmurs to the living room, but was reluctant to go in. I was afraid that he would be angry with me. Daddy was a mild person most of the time, but when he got angry – everyone does – I found nothing more abhorrent. But before I could succumb to my fear and run back upstairs, Toby slipped his hand into mine and led me into the room.

I blurted out "Hello," and Daddy turned to look at me. He was unchanged: he wore his grey work suit and had placed his briefcase at the foot of his chair. He was standing and staring straight at me, unusually alert. His gaze was unnerving. I walked over to him, panicking silently. I spoke again, saying sorry and apologizing for causing him so much trouble. I nipped my bottom lip tightly to stop it shaking as I waited for him to answer.

The next thing I knew, I was being embraced. I started to cry, overwhelmed by joy. Daddy wasn't angry with me.

We spoke and his words made everything better. He told me that Irene had explained everything and he assured me that he understood. He forgave me. He squeezed my hand and wiped my eyes dry with his handkerchief, smiling reassuringly when I thanked him.

He told me not to worry, and made me promise not to think about what had happened. What was done was done; it was in the past. He would say nothing more about it as long as I did the same.

I agreed happily and nothing more was said about where I had been and why.

Things were better that way.

…

…

…

The speed with which ordinariness returned startled me in the beginning. Everything prior to waking up and finding Irene felt like a nightmare and I started to treat it as such. There was no evidence to support the fact that my horrible experiences had been real, nothing tangible anyway. They were nightmares, that was all. Nothing to worry about. All smiles.

Toby finished school a few days after I came back and I spent a great deal of my time with him. I played with him, read him stories I had loved when I was a little girl, and woke up early on Saturdays to watch cartoons with him. Every moment I spent with him was precious and I was determined not to waste any time.

We had a belated party to commemorate my eighteenth birthday. Irene baked me a cake and I opened presents they had bought and wrapped for me without knowing whether I would ever be able to open them. The joy I felt from all the effort they had went to to give me a great party was nothing next to that which sprung from that which I felt from celebrating it with my family. Even Nana came, despite her illness; I had been afraid she wouldn't be able to make it. I exclaimed over every present, exaggerated every positive feeling to the point of hysteria.

I rarely doubted the reality of my experiences. Everything was wonderful. Irene continued to be just as kind and Toby just as adorable.

On the other hand, Dad's behavior was peculiar. He was odd; something about him had changed. There had always been some measure of distance between us but the tensions were worse when I came back, despite what he told me at our reunion. I quickly got the impression he was avoiding me. When I did see him he always seemed to be apart from the rest of us. He would stand in doorways and look inside without entering. He would pass me in the corridor, glance, but not speak to me.

His behavior made me that he had never forgiven me. He had lied; he nursed wounds that would only heal with time, patience, and good behavior.

I resolved to be a good daughter. If looking at me and considering what I had done was painful for him, I would avoid him. After that decision was made, life became infinitely more comfortable for both of us. I was content with the company of Irene and Toby, and my father seemed to like isolation.

I made good use of my time, passing most of the summer with Toby. I indulged him, gave him everything he asked for. One day, when he begged me to take him to the arcade in a town that could only be reached by a two hour bus ride, I took him. On another occasion, he demanded an expensive toy Robot he had wanted for a year. Being penniless, I begged the money I needed to buy it with from Irene, producing an old, holey coat I hadn't worn since I was thirteen to persuade her that I just _had_ to get a new one. She gave me the money instantly, freely expressing her horror.

Toby and I spent lots of time playing silly, childish games together. We acted out Cowboys and Indians dozens of times and I always ended up being the tragic, doomed Indian. I soon perfected a death act. When Toby's plastic pistol sounded my hands would seize my heart and I would keel over, sprawling elaborately over the grass and remaining perfectly still until Toby ordered me to stop being silly and put on my Skeletor voice for him.

No one told me to stop. No one told me how silly it was that an eighteen-year-old woman should play with a five-year-old boy like they were both the same age. I was glad; I did not want to be reminded of who I really was. Sarah Katherine Williams was a desperate fool who looked out of windows and saw nothing but bleakness and desolation. The Sarah I became when I was with Toby saw joy in every little thing and put creases around the corners of her mouth because she smiled too much.

I, the Sarah with the world view of an idealistic five-year-old, lacked the remotest interest in what eighteen-year-old girls were supposed to be interested in. When Irene told me that one of the girls from my year at school had got engaged, I was shocked. Eighteen was far too young to get married as far I was concerned. I shook my head gravely, concluding that Claudia Peake was a very silly girl.

Irene relayed similar gossip to me constantly; she was like a machine, efficient and relentless in her delivery of words. I had no job and no friends, and was obliged to act as her constant companion when Toby returned to school. She liked my company, although I was not really glad for hers. Irene, to be blunt, had no imagination. Sometimes, when I was sat with her, I wondered if she dreamed. I concluded that if she did, she dreamed about people whose faces she knew and events very likely to occur.

Gradually, her conversation became unbearable. I did not want to hear another word about the contents of her shopping list, nor did I care about what the Grovers were doing at the weekend. To spare myself further torment, I formulated a plan: I would get a job, one that would allow me to work with children.

I told Irene about my ambition, and asked if she could help me. She was pleased that I had a desire to work and asked a friend of hers who owned a daycare center if she could get me a job. I was working at the place within a week.

I loved it, and I spent most of my work hours smiling. I helped the children make sandcastles, praised them when they were good, and settled arguments over the gauzy fairy princess costume that every little girl in the building longed to wear. Occasionally, I felt guilty for having as much fun as the children.

Time flew by. Every day was exactly like the one before and I liked it that way.

But despite all of my efforts to forget my doubts, I could not. Occasionally, I would remember things that I could not easily dismiss. I began to mull over my troubling memories before I went to sleep in the evenings and devoted a great deal of time to deciding whether or not they were real. I had impressions of many things. One of them involved warm fingers that should have been cold, another told me that my mouth was dry and my lips were cracked. On one occasion I remembered a strange, outrageously dramatic conversation; nothing I tried stopped the words swilling around in my mind.

To combat my anxieties, I tried to distract myself. I worked extra hours at the daycare center, pretending to offer my services reluctantly for the sake of appearances when I was actually grateful. I took Toby to school and picked him up afterward. We walked there and back, and I took immense pleasure in the soothing plainness of the scenery.

My efforts failed; the worries never went away. If anything, they became more intrusive. Worries abounded. When I was walking to Toby's school, I stared intently at cracks in the pavement and asked myself why nothing had changed. Stasis was evident in everything. The seasons and the weather altered, but they were the exceptions. Nothing new was built, nothing was damaged or altered. No new programs turned up on television and the films being shown at the cinema were always the same. _Rambo III _and _Killer Klowns from Outer Space_ must have grossed record figures based on the number of sell-out showings they enjoyed in my town. It was the May of 1989, but everything was exactly as it had been a year before.

I realized most of what I have described above soon after arriving. When sorting through the papers on my desk, I found two envelopes; one was addressed to my parents and the other was meant for Toby. Neither of them had been opened and I cut them both into small, jagged pieces with scissors before they could be found. I forgot them successfully, and that self-imposed amnesia lasted for most of the year. My beautiful life was only truly soured by the discovery of a piece of one of the destroyed letters towards the end of May; the few legible words on the fragment of paper I found behind my trashcan – although meaningless in themselves – recalled everything I had tried to suppress. Why had my letters never been opened? Why did Dad hide himself away? Why did everything feel very slightly wrong?

Those little, nagging doubts didn't take long to blossom into big ones.

In a final, desperate attempt to forget, I started taking trips to the library again. The staff smiled at me when I passed them; they all remembered me from before and they were all the same, right down to the clothes they wore. I smiled back at them hastily, and hurried past with my books, averting my eyes so I would not have to see their unnaturally happy faces.

After reading around a dozen forgettable books, I felt an impulse to read _Wuthering Heights_. I started reading it while in the library and stopped halfway through chapter two. It was not that it was a bad book; it was just that it was wrong. What I read of the _Wuthering Heights_ in the library bore no resemblance to the _Wuthering Heights_ I had started to read in my little room in the city.

I returned the book to its place calmly. Nothing was confirmed, I told myself. For all I knew, Emily Brontë had written an alternative version of her book where Cathy and Heathcliff confessed their undying love for each other in chapter two.

I told myself that I had to be happy. I had to go on as normal until I was absolutely certain I was occupying a fabricated world.

When I got home, I tested what the book had virtually proved. I made myself a cup of coffee, carried it into the living room and tipped it onto the carpet in front of Irene. She sprung up from her seat and hurried out into the kitchen for a cloth. I watched the spot that I had damaged intently and the mark was gone by the time Irene returned to the room with a cloth. The fact the stain had disappeared did not stop her dropping to her knees and scrubbing the relevant piece of carpet aggressively. She didn't notice when I walked out of the room; she was too busy muttering about what she was going to make for dinner.

The real Irene would have screamed. She would have ordered me to scrub the carpet until it was spotless. She would have grounded me for a week.

I walked numbly into my room. Everything there felt surreal. The walls seemed less solid because I knew they were not really there. The family photos that I had spread all over the room felt like photocopies when I handled them. Suddenly, I felt terribly afraid. I had no idea where I was, not really. I could have been anywhere and anything could have been happening to me. Terrible things, unspeakably terribly things, could have been happening to me and I would never know.

I mulled over similar thoughts for hours as I sat on my bed. I only got up when Irene called me down for dinner and even then I barely spoke. It hardly seemed worth it. I ate without tasting what went into my mouth and kept my eyes on the vase centerpiece. I did not want to look at my fake family.

I was occupying a fantasy world. Everything I was experiencing was a reflection of my wishes. When I wanted something, I received it; when I disliked something, it disappeared. It became clear that nothing of the past year had been real. I couldn't help but wonder why I hadn't accepted the truth sooner.

It made sense, really. He had told me that I was gone, that no one person on Earth could see me. If he had been telling the truth, it was impossible for me to have interacted with my family. I had spent a year participating in imaginary conversations and studying imaginary expressions. Suddenly, painless feet and open doors were magically comprehensible. My life was a product of chance and improbability.

I just had to decide what I wanted to do about it.

…

…

…

The next day was a Saturday. I was free from work and it was a sunny day so, when Irene asked me to, I took Toby to the park. I felt I needed a distraction.

He chatted to me throughout the entire journey. I wanted him to shut up. I wanted him to stop trying to be real when he wasn't. I wanted him to help make my decision easy.

He rambled on for what seemed like hours, telling me that he and his friend Jamie were learning about the Vikings at school and they were going to be dressing up in horned hats for a presentation. He also told me all about his 'girlfriend' Sophie, describing in detail her blonde curly hair and boasting that she was the prettiest girl in his class. He paused, and clearly expected me to comment. Bluntly, I told him she sounded very nice.

He stopped walking immediately and peered up at me forlornly, asking what was wrong. Guiltily, I smiled in apology. I told him I had a lot on my mind, and that there was nothing for him to worry about. He seemed satisfied by my answer and raced in the direction of the swings.

I let him run ahead, smiling happily as I watched him go. It was a beautiful day and, despite everything, the sunshine put me in a good mood and helped me forget. As Toby became a tiny figure in the distance, I started to chase him and laughed loudly when he increased his speed.

Toby reached the swing first and pulled himself onto it. He was energetically swinging his legs back and forth by the time I reached the gate of the playground. He ordered me to push him and whooped gleefully when I did, sending him high into the air.

Pushing Toby exhausted me quickly, and the swing slowed. Toby complained – why had I stopped pushing? I told him that I was tired and had to rest. Upon finding a bench, I sat down and remembered how wonderful sitting down has the potential to feel.

He came and sat beside me. When I didn't pay attention to him, he laid his head against my chest. I was taken aback and quietly asked him if anything was wrong.

He told me that he knew I was going away again. I panicked instantly because he sounded strangely solemn; it was as if he was certain of the truth of what he was saying. I insisted I was not leaving, looking at his doleful expression in agony. The sight of him made me want to cry. I couldn't tell him the truth, I just couldn't. My callousness did not extend to telling a five-year-old he only existed inside my imagination.

Instead of speaking, I stroked his hair and allowed him to cuddle me. After a long pause, I told him that everything was okay. He asked me if I would stay and I said yes, and I meant it. He was too sweet; I couldn't bring myself to hurt him. Whether he was real or not had ceased to matter; I held by baby brother in my arms. He loved me and I loved him, and that meant the world to me.

We sat on the grass and, after I had taught Toby how, put daisy chains together. The sun was stunningly bright, and I could barely see because of its glare. When we had cleared the surrounding grass of all its daisies, I showed Toby how to make his rope of daisies into a loop. When he had finished it, he put it over my head, beaming at me with pride and saying that he had made it especially for me. I embraced him, pressing him against my chest and kissing his sun-bleached hair.

The illusion was beautiful, too beautiful. I replaced the truth with the sight of Toby's embarrassed grin and breathed in the fragrant summer air.

...

...

...

I worked hard to forget that I inhabited a fabrication. The thought of letting go became terrifying, more terrifying than the thought of what might be happening to me in reality. I clung the fabrication desperately, in the same way a shipwrecked man clings to a rotting piece of wood to keep himself alive.

I had to work hard to maintain my smile. My nights were frequently disturbed by memories, and I slept poorly. I covered my face in suffocating layers of make-up to disguise the limp, grey skin ringing my eyes, worked hard at the daycare center, and lavished Toby with attention.

My intense devotion to my environment paid off: life improved. I got promoted at work; Toby became more appreciative of me; Irene became quieter and I was spared her high-pitched, grating voice and petty conversation.

However, the change in Dad made me happier than all of the other improvements put together. Out of the blue, he took Irene and me out to dinner and was charming and relaxed. He commented on how pretty I was getting and made me feel pleasantly uneasy, joking that I would have to fight guys off with a stick. Irene smiled neutrally the entire time; she didn't seem to mind the fact we were ignoring her.

May was soon succeeded by June, and my birthday came steadily closer. I would be nineteen, and I couldn't remember the last time I had been as excited about my birthday. I decided the day was going to be a landmark, a proper celebration.

I decided I wanted a party and booked a venue. My party would be on the Saturday after my birthday and, assured of that information, I wrote invitations out to all the names I could think of. I was thrilled when every person I invited told me they would come.

The next day I woke up to find a letter waiting for me on the doormat. It wasn't junk mail; the address had been handwritten in beautifully turned-out letters. I didn't recognize the script.

Curious, I tore it open and pulled out a letter.

I froze after reading the first few lines; it was from my mother. She was sorry for not writing. She had been incredibly busy with her career. But she missed me; she had always missed me and was sorry for going away. She was coming back to see me for my birthday and make up for all the time she had been away. She loved me very, very much. Dozens of kisses blackened the bottom of the page. They blurred, bleeding into each other when my tears fell onto the paper.

I ran into the living room, thrusting the letter out towards Dad and explaining exactly what it said in a breathless, excited voice. He took it from me gently, scanning it as I waited in a haze by his side.

He was cross at first, I saw his face droop into a sad, tired frown. He expressed doubts about Mom's sincerity, telling me it might be better it she didn't come. I was hit by a sudden, terrible fear that he wouldn't allow me to see her, and I explained the letter to him again, carefully highlighting Mom's heartfelt apologies and perfectly expressed regrets. He gave in eventually, telling me she could come as long as I wanted her to.

I threw my arms around his neck and thanked him a dozen times, kissing his face and laughing.

Everything was going to be all right.

...

...

...

I spent the whole afternoon getting ready for Mom. I brought a pretty red dress in town and spent hours making myself worthy of it. I applied my make-up meticulously, practiced smiles, held banal conversations with my mirror and continually adjusted various aspects of my appearance. My hair was always wrong and my make-up was either virtually non-existent or spread too thickly. I fretted for hours, only calming down when Irene walked in and told me that I looked stunning. Her comment made me blush with pleasure, and I decided it was time I went downstairs.

I shivered slightly as I walked down the stairs. I was going to see my mom. My real, living, breathing mom. The thought of seeing her in the flesh for the first time in years was simultaneously terrifying and incredible.

We had exchanged calls; she had left me her number in the letter. She had the sweetest voice and said the kindest things to me. Every other word seemed to be sorry, and my face was stained with tears by the end of our first conversation. She had missed me just as intensely as I had missed her.

Dad met me at the bottom of the stairs, and smiled reassuringly. He said I looked beautiful, firmly telling me not be scared and to deal with the reunion as well as I could.

Mom was arriving at six, and as I had half an hour to wait. I killed time by playing with Toby. All my stress evaporated when I was with him. He asked me silly questions about my appearance and made disgusted faces whenever he picked up on the adult's excited chatter about my beauty. I was careful to preserve my appearance and constantly reminded Toby not to touch me as I helped him do a puzzle.

The puzzle was simple, but I was too dazed with the thought of my mom's imminent arrival to help much. For a few minutes, I doubted her. Had she meant her apologies? Did she just want to say sorry or was there something else, another reason for her interest in me?

I couldn't help but wonder what she would look like. My clippings of her had stopped years before, and my memories of her face were foggy. In my mind, she was a magazine cover. The picture had been taken for a minor teen magazine, not long after her high school graduation. In the image, she wore a blue, polka-dotted dress, her black hair was pin straight and she had turned her head toward to the camera. Her red mouth was caught in an enigmatic half-smile, her cheeks were pink and soft, and the outline of her lovely blue eyes had been traced with silver eye shadow. She was the image of perfection.

I moved the puzzle pieces around lazily, disinterested in the game. My hand stopped when the door bell rang, and eyes darted to the clock. It was five to six; she was early.

I climbed up carefully and headed over to the door. Irene and Dad stood at a comfortable distance, watching me with kindly, encouraging expressions. I shot them a smile before opening the door; I wanted to reassure them everything was going to be okay.

A dark haired woman stood in the porch, smiling and stepping forward to embrace me. She squeezed me in an embrace, attacking both my cheeks with kisses. Her long, soft hair swung forward to tease my cheek, and I started to panic. I drew away, and looked at her from a distance. She was dressed in a flounced, polka dotted dress, her lips were red from thickly applied lip-stick and her smile was forced, an ugly strain on her beautiful face.

She was completely artificial.

I backed away from her in shock and swung my eyes around my surroundings, taking in everything. Irene and Dad held their stiff arms around each other, and looked like they were posing for the cover of a marriage manual. In the next room, Toby played obliviously with his puzzle on the floor, his tongue stuck out slightly in concentration. Something about the image was wrong, and as I watched him I remembered that Toby liked shredding puzzle pieces into bits with his deceptively little hands.

It wasn't just my mother; my whole family was a fabrication.

I couldn't bear the sight of them and ran, pushing past my mother and running out onto the porch where I inhaled the cool evening air. My mother turned around and looked at me tenderly. She extended a hand towards me, making me hurry further back, down the steps. I was terrified by the possibility of her touch.

She asked me what was wrong, called me sweetie and asked me to kiss her in a girlish, innocent voice. I moved further back, distraught by the sight of her. She seemed puzzled by my reaction, creasing her brow and asking me what was wrong.

I answered her bitterly "Everything. You left us when I was four and you would never have come back to us, not in the real world. You loved yourself too much; you could never get over your ambitions. You haven't sent me birthday cards in years, you've never visited me. You don't love me, not really. The only thing you love is attention, and you don't care who it comes from. None of this is real." I started choking on my hurt and anger, sobbing breathlessly as I turned away from her. I couldn't bear looking at her.

When I recovered, I glanced inside the front hall of the house. Dad had left Irene by the stairs, and was standing beside Mom. His arm was around her tightly pinned waist, and she gazed at him adoringly. He ignored her to look straight at me, creasing his brow in incomprehension. "What are you saying, Sarah? Of course we're real. How could we be anything else?" He paused, sighing. "It was bad of you to say those terrible things about your mother, look at her." My eyes darted to her face; she looked at me with a soft, kindly face. "She loves you, just like she loves me." He briefly turned his head to Mom, smiling at her charmingly. She just stared at him, looking vacant eyed and lovely; her face was a picture of complete absorption. "See? We love each other, so everything's all right again. I expected you to be glad, Buttercup."

I stared at them, dumbstruck. I wanted to run to them, to embrace them both at once and become a part of their cozy, loving group.

Dad slowly turned his gaze to me, displaying the same smile he had used on my mother. It was a frightening smile, and seemed terribly wrong. I was winded by a sharp, sickening pain in my stomach.

As I looked at him his features became blurred and indistinct, like they were being seen through smoke. When the image cleared, my father had gone. Jareth was watching me. His hair had been cut short and styled just like my Dad's and wore his navy-blue suit, but I knew he was an imposter. His face was strange, repellently alien.

I had taken the place of my mother, although the changes were negligible. We both had the same long, dark hair, bow-shaped lips, and height. The only thing to change in the girl was her build: every trace of health had been stripped from her body. Her face was gaunt and tightly drawn, her limbs pathetically thin. The dress overwhelmed her, hanging from her body like a sack. She was deeply asleep and her skin was transparently pale, ice-like.

Jareth was propping her up, not embracing her but holding her stiffly, as one might hold a mannequin. He didn't look at her at all, but gazed straight at me. He seemed full of wonder. I observed him, twisting my face up in revulsion as I stared.

He parted his lips to speak, but did not make any noise. The whole world had gone perfectly silent. I ran down the rest of the porch quickly, shouting, "I hate you! I hate you! I will never forgive you for this! Never!"

No one answered, nor did anyone follow. I looked back briefly, but only saw the dim glow that emanated from the front hall of the house.

I turned away completely, running away at full pelt. It was dark and cold, both conditions were unnatural for July. I hugged myself as I ran, rubbing my arms frantically to generate some heat. But no amount of running and rubbing my arms stopped me trembling as I remembered the icy pallor of my face.

I ran without knowing where I was going, uncaring of my destination. I intuitively knew I would have been running in the direction of the park if I was in the real world, but didn't take that for granted. I knew the world I was running through was not real.

The exertion soon made me immune to the cold, and I started sweating. Soon, I panted from thirst. I started assuring myself that I was probably not thirsty in reality, and my parched throat was quickly forgotten. My real body could have been feeling anything imaginable; my feelings were just one aspect of an exceptionally intricate hallucination.

Within a minute, my feet were crushing grass underfoot; I was in the park. I had not escaped my fantasy, and was – for some inexplicable reason – clinging onto the irrelevant logic of my past. The grass was dewy and soft and soothed my aching feet.

Meanwhile, I desperately worked at a solution. How could I possibly escape a fantasy? Did I have to rage and scream at the sky? Did I have to beg? I didn't want_ that_; I despised the idea of _that_. I would not let myself be dependent on _his_ pity.

I looked around quickly, paranoid, but despite looking hard, I didn't see a soul.

I kept walking but slipped, skidding down a bank that I had forgotten and plunging underneath the surface of the water. I fell an unbearably long time, which was strange because the real river was only good for paddling in. I tried to scream, but dozens of bubbles surged out of my mouth instead of words. Water poured down my throat, filling my lungs, choking me.

I closed my eyes and ignored the swiftly dulling pain. I was escaping.

……

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……

……

……

……

Something very important I forgot about before - HAPPY EASTER!

Finished edits 12.04.09. Happy to have finished them. Everything completely redone. Hopefully better now.

Many thanks go out to NiennaTelrunya for betaing this.

Please review. I have invested this story with a lot of time and effort, and am hungry for feedback! I will reply, and I like I said above, I will leave you a hint.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Please check out my livejournal, to be found on my profile. It contains lots and lots of goodies that should help to illuminate things.

Night night.


	11. Paperhouse

Chapter Eleven: Paperhouse

_Causing or evoking pity, sympathetic sadness, sorrow, etc._

_Affecting or moving the feelings._

_Pertaining to or caused by the feelings._

_Miserably or contemptibly inadequate._

When I woke up, I remembered drowning. The water was closing over my head, blocking my throat. I was dying again.

Yet at the same time I was breathing.

I looked around cautiously. Jon Bon Jovi brooded on the facing wall, and the ornaments on my vanity were in their normal state of disarray. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, looking straight ahead and frowning. Tom Cruise's smiled had slipped; his carefully proportioned face was distorted by the angle of the wall I had pinned it to months before.

The floor creaked loudly when I got out of bed, and I stopped. The low groan continued. Before I could react, the floor split open. I screamed, but had all the breath knocked out of me when I hit the floor.

I kept myself still, too shocked and afraid to move. Above me the ceiling was cracked and split, and shredded pieces of paper floated down from my room. Dust misted the air. Coughs forced me to sit up, and I waved my arms to clear the air as I stood up.

The whole house shrieked. I tottered towards the window, trampling a coffee table to reach it. The curtains were pulled shut, and when I tried to draw them apart they ripped, coming away in my hands like tissue paper.

There were no houses outside the window; I couldn't even make out our lawn. Everything was black.

Something crashed to the floor behind me, and I jerked my head up in fright. Chunks of cardboard and paper tiles cascaded through the gaping holes in the ceiling. The house was disintegrating.

I clawed the window panes apart and ripped out the remains of the frame, clambering through.

I panted as I ran, panicked by a series of crashes that sounded behind me. I kept looking straight ahead, running steadily until silence set in. I glanced back over my shoulder, but couldn't see a thing. I hesitated for a moment, thinking about the house, dwelling on a few memories of its contents. I saw things: the pattern on the living room carpet, the clock in the hall, the faces of my family around the dinner table. Suddenly, I remembered what fearing for others felt like. Were they – Dad, Toby, Irene - trapped under the remains of the house? Had I left them?

I turned around, and ran, shouting as I raced away:

"Dad!"

"Toby!"

"Irene!"

No one answered.

I slowed down, clenching my fists. There should have been an indication I was on the right track, but nothing had changed.

"Daddy!"

_Daddy, _the room stole my shout, returning it to me as a whisper. I tried again:

"Toby!"

My pathetic shout reverberated, taunting me. Desperate to clear away the tears that kept on forming, I scraped my knuckles over my eyes.

"Dad!"

_Dad_.

"Stop it!" I demanded, shouting at my own voice. I stamped my foot. "I said stop it!"

A light flashed above me. It was only on for a second, but it gave me a glimpse of the huge, stone room I had wandered into. I looked up just in time to see a light bulb flicker out. It started up again - the light came in bursts - but the periods it remained for quickly grew longer.

I looked around – every trace of the house had gone. The room was derelict. I breathed in and doubled over, choking on the dust that remained.

I waved my arms to disperse it, and, able to breathe once more, I started looking for an exit. Only a tiny, pin prick of light in the middle of the furthest wall stood out.

I ran to the window and leaned out, taking in the view when not pushing my wind-swept hair from my eyes. I could just pick out the gold tipped silhouette of a mountain range on the horizon; the sun was rising. Casting my eyes down, I saw a rocky plain, then a wood. I strained my head forward, closing my eyes before inhaling the cool, sharp air.

I was so high up I had might as well have been in a plane. The world below me looked like a clumsy patchwork quilt. Sprawling woods, stone mazes and disordered piles of junk were scattered across the landscape.

It all seemed familiar, though I couldn't work out why. When I concentrated, I could only remember fragments of silly children's stories. A ball of string. The Minotaur. Goblins.

I stumbled back a few steps, suddenly aware. "I'm not there." I muttered, stepping back from the window. "I'm not back there, not in that place. I'm not. I'm not."

I looked down, balking when I realized I was still in my nightdress. The bottom of it was dark, muddied, and my legs were white, like paper. I extended my hand down to touch one of them, pinching my thigh. There wasn't any pain.

I paced randomly, thoughtlessly: towards the window, away from it, back again, just never daring to go too far in case I lost sight of it. I revolved on the spot, sweeping my eyes over the room for an exit that wouldn't kill me. All I could see was stone.

I had one choice to make. I could starve until I was too weak to stand, or cut out the wait and jump.

I walked slowly to the far end of the room, considering my options. When I reached the wall, I stopped and rested for a few seconds, breathing deeply. When I felt ready, I turned around and sprinted towards the tiny pin prick of light that marked the window.

I didn't think, or feel; I focused on the window.

It grew larger rapidly, and I moved so quickly my muscles ached. Just before I was about to crash into the wall, I leaped.

I was only aware of fear in the final moments, when it was too late. I saw the hard, grey earth below me – rushing to meet me - and knew what was going to happen.

I hit the ground before I could close my eyes.

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I was struck by an impression of extraordinary comfort when I regained consciousness. My head rested on a thick, soft pillow, my body upon a plush mattress. At this point, my only concern in the world was a cold nose.

I could just about bring myself to open my eyes, and looked around. It took them a while for things to focus, initially everything in the room looked soft and indistinct. When things became clear, I found myself looking at a small room that was empty but for a dresser, a plain china bowl, and a tall, gleaming mirror.

The mirror threw back my swollen, disfigured face. I looked like I belonged on a slab. I pulled back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. They were black with bruises, but there was no pain. Actually, now I come to think of it, there was no feeling at all.

I folded my stiff legs in towards my chest, and gathered the blankets around my body. My night-dress felt paper-thin, and I shivered as a breeze chilled my feet.

Tired from looking around, I closed my eyes and concentrated on the sounds around me. At first, I only heard the covers rustling and subside as I tried to make myself comfortable. Then, the door creaked open. A few footsteps were followed by a quiet groan as the mattress dipped.

"You don't need to pretend you're asleep."

"I'm not pretending." I mumbled. "I'm tired. Hurt."

There was a pause, and I felt his knuckles brush against my hair. I flinched, and the depression in the mattress lifted as he stood up.

"Did you think you'd be able to escape?" He sounded faint, bored.

"No. I just thought I might be able to die."

The pressure in the mattress lifted, and the last thing I heard before falling asleep was a reassuring click from the direction of the door.

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The above episodes were replayed over andover. I woke up – sleepy, sore and disorientated – and was rarely without company for more than a minute. I didn't resent his visits as much as I would have liked to; subconsciously I welcomed them for alleviating the boredom.

I eventually learned to turn my eyes to the door as soon as I woke up, and trained my ears to listen to it.

My eyesight recovered by degrees, and eventually I was able to make him out. He looked older, more worn: the lines on his face were deeper, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. He looked tired, like someone who'd just woken up after an exceptionally long sleep.

I was never brought food or drink. Food didn't matter, because I was never hungry. Drink, on the other hand, did. One day, I woke up to find that my throat was aching. I was stretching a hand out towards the china bowl on my dresser – about to over-balance – when the door opened. Jareth grabbed me around the waist and forced me to sit, pulling me up again when I slid down into the enticing warmth of my blankets. He continued to drag me up until I stayed upright, my head lolling back against the stone wall. I watched listlessly as he fetched me water from the bowl.

He molded my hand around the glass as I drank, tipping the glass for me. I cringed as I swallowed.

When the glass was empty, my head slipped down on to the pillow. I glanced at my pale, trembling hands and tried to clench my fist, only managing to make my fingers go crooked at the middle. I turned my head towards Jareth, who was standing besides my bed. "What's wrong with me?" I mumbled, doubting he would hear.

The glass chinked as it was placed on the dresser. "You jumped out of a window, Sarah."

Before I could challenge him, he left the room.

Each time I woke up, I devoted more time to dwelling on paradoxes. My mortal enemy had adopted the role of doting nursemaid, rearranging my blankets when they slipped and sitting beside me when I happened to be conscious. He baffled me. How did he know when I woke up? How was he able to respond to my requests before I said them?

I entertained myself by thinking up names for him: foolish, dependent, unstable. Useless. Ineffectual. Nothing better to do than play-pretend as my baby-sitter.

I soon learned to shift over to the far corner of my bed so he wouldn't touch me when he came to visit. I pressed my knees hard against my chest even though it hurt, and pulled the blanket up so it covered the tip of my nose. He nearly always stood a few feet away, staring at me until I became too exhausted to stare back.

Just as my bruises were close to disappearing, I developed a migraine. I was used to having them at home – they'd served as great excuses for skipping dinner – and ignored it. But it escalated quickly, forming an expanding block in my brain. Names, faces and events became jumbled up. I couldn't remember what my dog was called. I struggled to recall what month I'd been born in, let alone the day.

My sense of perspective became weak, unreliable. The first time I managed to stagger out of bed without being caught, I bashed my face against a wall. I was whimpering, blood dribbling out of my nose, when Jareth found me sat on the edge of the bed. When he grabbed my arms and asked what I had done, I realized I was trembling.

Not long after that, I got up again and tottered over to the door. I closed my hand around its stiff, metal handle, shaking it gently at first then rattling it violently, babbling insults, when it didn't give. Before I could start attacking the door, I was led back to bed. The blanket was tucked in too tightly for me escape.

By the time I woke up, the covers had loosened. I got up and looked around for the door, only to find it had moved behind the dresser. I stumbled towards it, only for it to vanish before I could extend my hand. I moved my head sharply, whimpering when I realized the door had gone. Defeated, I shuffled back to bed before he could put me there.

After that, there were no more attempts to escape. I remained in bed, and devoted myself to suffering.

The earliest stage consisted of moaning, shrieking and attempting to kick my covers off. I convinced myself that someone was going smother me in my sleep and shielded my face with my hands whenever I heard a noise. I was determined not to sleep. One night I knelt so my head was pressed into a ridge in the wall; I hoped the pain would keep me awake. I wailed when he twisted me around and forced me to lie down.

My distress eventually diminished, giving way to delirium. I don't remember much, only that I often thought of an old story I'd read at Nana's house about a sweet, pious seven year old whose death had been a model of piety and grace. I resolved to be just like her: good, grateful and kind. I said thank you at regular intervals, composed prayers in my head and murmured about how much I was looking forward to heaven.

When a strange, dark-haired man arrived by my bedside, I smiled and remarked "Oh, how lovely."

He didn't smile back, instead pouring some dark, glossy liquid onto a spoon. "Open," he commanded. Perfectly docile, I sucked the stuff off the spoon. It tasted vile, and my senses sharpened from disgust. I was too slow to dodge the next spoonful, and swallowed reluctantly. When the spoon prodded my lips a third time, I looked away and noticed that Jareth was staring at me from the corner of the room just as I opened my mouth.

I swallowed too quickly and choked. My heart raced and I felt more alert, more afraid, than I had in days. I sputtered and wheezed and panicked even more openly when I realized Jareth was approaching me. He hesitated, and my breathing settled. I slipped down so my head rested on the pillow. Jareth commanded the stranger to "Leave." The door was opened quietly. A few seconds later, a lock clicked as it was closed.

Jareth took hold of one of my hands. I tried to pull it free, but only managed to drag our clasped hands a few inches across my blanket. He moved his thumb over mine, soothing me.

"What's happening?" I whispered, aware I didn't have long before I slept. "What have you done?"

He shook his head, and as I watched all the detail disappeared from his face. I couldn't make out the color of his eyes or perceive his expression. I only heard him reply, his voice sounded just as soft as mine, "It's nothing." He tightened his grip. "It's nothing."

If he said anything else, I didn't hear him. Not that hearing him would have made a difference.

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The next time I woke up, I felt fine. Full of pep, as Dad would say. I threw the covers back and got up, stretching my limbs and looking around for the door. I frowned; the room had tripled in size. The furniture was unchanged but the spaces between everything were larger. The only addition was a pair of white slippers placed by the foot of my bed. I pulled them on.

The door was finally where it was meant to be, beside the dresser. I approached it cautiously, stopping when I was within touching distance. I started extending my arm towards the handle with trepidation, only to lose patience and seize it suddenly. To my amazement, the door didn't disappear. I turned the handle, and the door glided forward.

The room led out onto a corridor, and started upon noticing three Goblins in a huddle besides my door. Their heads drooped back against the wall, spears clutched in their dormant hands. They snored collectively, producing more noise than an express train.

I crept along the corridor until I reached another door, leaving them undisturbed. I glanced back at them, smiling. I liked the Goblins. There was something endearing about their incompetence.

I pulled the door open, peering through the gap as it came towards me, then yelped in alarm when I saw Jareth's hand on the edge of the door. I tried to slam it shut but before I could crush his hand, he vanished. I turned around and flattened my back against the door, staring out at the corridor. It was unnaturally quiet; even the snoring had stopped. When I looked back in the direction of my room, I realized the Goblins had gone.

"Did you plan on touring the castle without me?" The voice came from beside me, and I jerked around. Jareth was stood to my left, smiling amiably.

"You bet." I retreated, but he just mirrored my steps until I was backed up against the wall. We surveyed each other for a few seconds before I broke the contact. I couldn't bear his expression; it was proud, cruel. I looked back in the direction from which I'd come, the only unblocked route. I attempted to run.

He grabbed me by my arm, pulling me back so strongly I nearly slipped on the floor. I squirmed and wrenched my head back in an effort to bite him, prompting him to seize my other arm and hold me against the wall. I started gasping out demands: "Explain!" I twisted my arms to try and loosen his grip. "I need to understand -- about how I came here – about that horrible, evil dream-"

"You have turned wild, Sarah." He taunted me gleefully, squeezing my wrist. "I don't speak to animals."

"You're the animal, the monster-"

"I am not the one who is snarling, dear."

I calmed myself down, drawing long breaths from the air. The tension escaped my limbs and I raised my head, looking into his eyes. "Please, let go," I pleaded. "My arms, they hurt." He released me, and my arms fell to my sides. "I want to know what's happening. I want to understand. Don't I deserve that?"

"You are my prisoner. You have no entitlements."

"I don't even have the right to know what happened to me?"

He shook his head.

I scowled at my feet, feeling like a lectured little girl. I just wished I could have got away with throwing a tantrum.

I noticed something odd as I looked down; my hair fell just short of my knees. "What?" I grabbed a clump of it and dangled it in front of his face. He viewed it with an air of mild disinterest. "What did you do?" I exclaimed, utterly dismayed.

"I see nothing out of the ordinary."

"But it looks like it hasn't been cut in years!" I cried. His face remained impassive.

"You've been asleep. Time passes –"

"Don't patronize me! No one sleeps for years!"

"They do in your stories.

"They're _just_ stories! I couldn't have been out for that long. Maybe a few weeks, but that's it. I'm not some princess; I'm not in a story."

"Behave, Sarah."

"You did it," I accused. "You made it long."

"I do not care for your hair enough to lengthen it. But stop this now, you dwell on petty matters, and with such a miserable face! I think I should introduce you to the Goblins." I met his eyes, confused by his joviality. "You do need to be distracted, Sarah. Idleness has made you morbid."

He moved his arm around my waist. I flinched at first, but was too accustomed to being groped to bother with a struggle. He led me through a succession of grey, stone corridors, through doors that swung forward in anticipation of our arrival. Jareth spoke pleasantly, addressing me like a favored house guest. "I thought it would be nice for you to see the Goblins again. It's been such a long time since you last saw them – and, of course, since they last saw you."

I didn't bother to reply. I was rapidly growing more and more annoyed.

Finally, Jareth announced, "We're here." He gestured for me to walk ahead into the throne room, adding, "After you." His arm left my waist, and I shuffled through the door.

I froze after a few steps, mortified by a torrent of boos and catcalls. The Goblins' faces were distorted, some by anger, others by excitement. A few had weapons: one of them struggled to support a broom-handle, another waved a single prong of a pitchfork.

"Naughty, nasty girl!"

"Boo!"

"Bad person! You bad person!"

"Boo! Boo!"

"Down with humans! Down with 'em!"

"Boo! Boo! Boo, boo, boo! Boo."

There was a lull in the clamor except for the sound of weak 'boos' from the middle of the crowd. Heads were turned, someone whispered, "Keep yer gob shut!"

"Sorry, Mum."

"Punish her! Punish her!"

"Burn the witch!"

"Don't be stupid! She all soft! Throw 'er in the moat!"

"Kill 'er!"

The crowd steadily became more inflamed, and I started to back away and bumped into Jareth. My heart thudded against my chest, my ears were filled with the sounds of their angry, hateful shouts. Most of what they were saying was stupid, ridiculous. I was only intimidated by their tone; they sounded primed to tear me to bits.

Jareth forced his way past me, grabbing my wrist and dragging me through a convenient gap in the crowd. All of the Goblins went silent as soon as he started moving, following our progress with their eyes. Jareth sat down in the throne, moving a hand to my shoulder and pushing down until I was kneeling by his feet. The ground was slimy with filth; I could feel it stick to my legs as Jareth spoke.

"Now, someone tell me who this is." He spoke with the manner of an indulgent kindergarten teacher.

"A witch, yer highness!"

"She's a witch all right!"

"Burn her!"

"Burn 'er!"

Jareth struck his riding crop against the arm of his throne. "Quiet!" The room fell silent. "That may or may not be her profession, but it is not who she _is_. Let's try again, shall we?"

After a prolonged pause, one of the Goblins raised their hand. "She's the Sarah girl."

The crowd burst into anxious whispers, either staring nervously in Jareth's direction or looking, amazed, at the speaker.

"Exactly." Those who hadn't already turned their eyes to Jareth did so. "And what did she do?"

None of them showed the slightest indication of answering this, seemingly more problematic, question. After a minute of silence, Jareth spoke again. "You need reminding, do you? Well, I'm sure Sarah can exercise your memories."

I jerked my head up to look at him. He was gazing serenely at the crowd, the only betrayal of his true state of mind a malicious twist of his lips. I stood up, and looked down at the Goblins. Many had their fists clenched in anger, and most of them were muttering.

I got to my feet, and waited for a few seconds to be pushed back down. My voice trembled, but I managed to speak "Whoever said it, you were right – I'm Sarah. I wished my brother away by mistake, and he –" I gestured to Jareth, who was looking at me steadily – "Took him here. I came to the Labyrinth, made my way through it and defeated your King. I got my brother back."

The Goblins erupted into a mass of scandalized gasps. Some of them started regurgitating the insults they'd used before.

"Liar!"

"Witch!"

"But you saw!" I cried, dismayed. "You must have seen! The whole castle fell down when I beat him! And the battle in the city, me and my friends, we defeated you! Your houses fell down!"

"You didn't do nothing! The castle stayed the same!"

"Witch!"

"My house is as good as new!"

"Boo! Boo!"

A particularly ugly Goblin with a triangular face pushed their way through the crowd, stopping by the foot of the dais and holding out a limp, baby doll dressed in a ill fitted, red-and-white romper suit. "Your brother never left!" It clamored, rattling the doll. I took a few steps away. Pink, rubbery sockets gaped at me instead of eyes.

"Stupid girl. Don't even know what to say!"

"Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" The Goblins seemed to like that particularly insult, latching onto it. After a minute, the whole room reverberated with the sound of that word. I couldn't persuade myself to think rationally, or to ignore the insult. I focused on the word until it became fixed in my brain, beating against the inside of my skull. I felt hot, my pulse throbbed and the row was deafening. I took a step forward and tried to ignore the room as it revolved, spinning at a quickening pace. In a dazzling, overwhelming instant I felt my mind empty. The room filled with silence, and I collapsed on the stairs.

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When I woke up, my back was sore. As soon as I opened my eyes, I realized that was explained by the fact I was spread across the steps of the dais. I picked myself up, and looked cautiously out on the throne room. It was nearly empty. Only three Goblins - they had wedged themselves in between a pair of beer barrels - remained. One of them used its nails to scrape at the shell of a barrel. Another suddenly started croaking out a tuneless, rambling song.

I looked behind me and started: Jareth was in his throne, examining his fingers and looking utterly bored. "You're awake. Good."

"How long was I was lying there for?"

"You faint frequently. I wasn't paying attention."

"So I just lay by your feet – maybe for hours – and you didn't do anything about it?"

"Would you have liked me to put you to bed?"

I turned my head away sharply, blushing hotly. One of the Goblins started sniggering, and I immediately returned my attention to Jareth. "No," I said curtly. The laughter stopped, and I started to think back to the name-calling, the enraged faces. "They hate me."

"How astute of you."

"But why? I never did anything to hurt them. Nothing I meant, nothing I didn't need to do."

"That may be so," his voice had dropped in volume, "But you caused me harm. The Goblins are loyal, Sarah. They value my life, my thoughts, over their own."

"That's sick. They're helpless, like babies."

"Oh, but babies are far more selfish than my Goblins. You should think of it from their perspective. They're not unhappy. Some creatures don't enjoy thinking, they find it unpleasant. Stressful."

"That doesn't mean they shouldn't try!"

He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not prepared to discuss this with a tired, moody girl." He rose, and took hold of my arm. He led me down the steps.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to your room. Would you prefer to find your own way?"

"No." I rushed the answer, speeding up slightly. My mind was dominated by thoughts of hateful shouts and pink, plastic eye-sockets.

He didn't speak, but he looked at me repeatedly. Whenever I caught his eyes, he made no attempt to disguise the fact he had been looking at me. He just smiled charmingly, fully aware he was free to look at me however he wished.

As we were walking, it struck me that I was still in my nightdress. I'd been too pre-occupied to pay attention to what I was wearing before, but in the silence I noticed that most of my skin was exposed, dirty and bumpy from the cold. The next time he glanced down at me, I looked away.

"Is something the matter?"

I didn't answer, and for once he didn't pursue the conversation. When we reached my room – a new room, more spacious than the one I had had before – I glanced over to the window automatically. It was crisscrossed with bars, and the sky was nearly black behind them; the effect was staggeringly depressing. I studied the window for a moment before turning around and saying "Goodnight." My voice was stiff, uncompromising.

"Goodnight."

I ignored his reply, pressing my face into the bars. There was nothing in the sky, only darkness. With a quiet sob, I started to cry. I was stranded. I had nobody to confide in, no one I could go to for compassion or understanding.

When I restrained myself and fell quiet, I heard footsteps. Quiet, hasty footsteps.

I darted my head back; the door to my room was wide open.

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THE (VERY NAUGHTY) AUTHORS NOTE: hi. I think it's been a year. Maybe eleven months or so if the going's better than it feels. Anyway, all I can say is I'm really sorry. I'm a lazy twerp, and get distracted alarmingly easily. Oh well, better late than never…?

To the loyal band of followers who are still reading, thank-you for your encouragement and support. I hope you enjoy this (brief, by my standards) offering. To new readers, I hope very much that you have enjoyed the story so far and that you look forward to the next installment – guaranteed to arrive before the apocalypse!

Please review, although I haven't given a great impression receiving feedback does actually intensify my desire to write.

A big thanks to my beta, Nienna, without whom this would probably be unintellgible.

Oh yes, the best way to know if anything is happening with this story is to add to your alerts. Actually, scratch that. It's probably the only way.

P.S. I hope the misery was tempered enough by insanity this time! Do let me know.

P.P.S. I hope the formatting on this isn't too screwed. I'm sure it's a simple persecution complex, but I sometimes get the impression changes to disturb and disorientate me.


	12. Tokens of Affection

**Author's Note: if little Sara Crewe interests you, please check out the homepage on my profile for more!**

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Chapter Twelve: Tokens of Affection

She was a queer child, as I have said before, and quite unlike the other children. She seldom cried. She did not cry now.

_**Sara Crewe, Or What Happened at Mrs Minchin's.**_** Mrs. F H Burnett.**

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The next morning, I woke up for the simple reason that I didn't want to stay in bed any longer. There was nothing particularly intimidating about the bed itself – actually, it was nice. It had everything: soft pillows, thick blankets, cotton sheets. It was just that I felt uncomfortable with the idea of being asleep, with the vulnerability of unconsciousness.

I hurried straight to the door, trying the handle. I had closed it as soon as Jareth had left the previous night, and even made a futile attempt to push the dresser in front of it to keep him out. I hadn't been able to shift the damn thing an inch, and had had to sleep knowing that there were no obstacles to his entering the room.

Although I had no powers to lock the door, Jareth apparently did. The door did not yield when I tried the handle, and didn't so much as shudder when I kicked it. Ultimately, I left it alone and surveyed my prison.

The room was large and wide. Regularly spaced shadows were cast over it by the sunlight the barred window allowed through. The bed was spacious and, as much as I hated to admit it, comfortable. The blankets were decorated with a pretty floral pattern that would have looked nice on my bed back home. Most of the floor was covered with a thick, red carpet that was rough but warm to walk on; the hard, stone floor could only be made out towards the edges of the room. I had two other functional pieces of furniture besides my bed: a dresser and a wardrobe. I assumed the dresser was a deliberate nod to the same piece of furniture in my room back home; it was made from the same pale wood, and featured an identical square mirror. The key difference between the two was that the new model was tidy; there were no photos tacked the glass, no ornaments or papers crowding the surface. The only object on it was a vase of daisies in the exact centre. They were beautiful, in a dainty, ephemeral sort of way.

I snatched the vase from the dresser and dashed it against a wall. It burst into splinters, scattering itself all over the floor. The soaked flowers lay on the stone, and my rage-quickened breathing started to settle. I smiled, and glanced at the mirror; I looked deranged, so manic I was almost no longer myself.

I started pulling out the drawers of the dresser, shrieking when I found them empty. I quickly abandoned it, flinging open the doors of the wardrobe instead. It was full of pretty, attractive clothes. I yanked every dress and skirt off its hanger, ripping what I could and stamping on everything else. I screamed in short, shrill bursts, working myself into a fury.

When the wardrobe had been stripped bare, I targeted the bed. I tore at the blankets and sheets, pulling off layer after layer until the mattress was exposed. My skin felt hot and my hands trembled, but I grabbed the edge of the mattress and yanked it up. For a few seconds it wavered in the air, and I finished the job my pulling it down, laughing long and hard when it crashed onto the carpet.

I finally stopped, and took in the sight of the room. It was wrecked, just as I had wanted, but I wasn't smiling any longer. There was only devastation left – devastation in the torn dresses and the broken china. I wasn't where I was supposed to be, I wasn't at home.

Somehow, that single, transparent thought made it difficult to breathe.

I sank onto the floor, and slowly covered my mouth with my hand. There was a tightness in my eyes, my entire face; I needed to cry but the tears wouldn't form. I was left with nothing.

I crawled over to the mattress, climbing onto it and curling up. I wanted my mother to hold me again, like she had when I was small. I wanted to punish her for leaving, for making me do what I had done. I relaxed enough to draw breath, but still couldn't cry.

It took me a few minutes to realize that I'd returned to the place in the room I hated the most – the bed. I sat up in disgust and looked around, free from the mania of despair. The destruction that had seemed so thorough before looked negligible now. I had broken a vase, ripped a few clothes and displaced a mattress. My rebellion had amounted to nothing more than a tantrum.

I spent the next couple of hours putting the room right again.

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I put on one of the dresses I had managed to salvage from the wardrobe, finally shedding my stained, stinking nightdress in favor of a blue gown. It was the most practical thing I could find, with a high-neckline and a reasonably low hem. It was tight and musty, but it served it covered me up. Upon looking more carefully, I discovered a hairbrush in one of the drawers in the dresser. I took the opportunity to brush out my hair. It was ridiculously long; by the time I brushed it all out I looked very much like the storybook princess I had always dreamed of being as a child. So I didn't have to sit on it, I weaved it into a plait. It took forever, but the task made a welcome distraction. When I was finished I piled as much of it as I could on my head, fixing it in place with countless pins and strips of ribbon. It was the most ridiculously hairdo I've ever had. By the time I was done, it looked like some kind of fancy, chocolate-flavored desert.

I smiled impulsively at my reflection, only to scream sharply when I saw Jareth's face beside mine.

I darted my head around, and my breathing settled only slightly when I saw that Jareth was stood a few feet behind me. He smiled. "How did you sleep?"

"Okay."

"Excellent." He turned around, disregarding the red, puffy skin that surrounded my eyes. When he looked back at me, he was frowning. "Did something occur here, Sarah?"

I knew I must have missed a few pieces of the vase. I didn't answer, blushing by way of response.

"No matter," he pronounced, dismissing his own question, "Things appear to have straightened themselves out, haven't they?"

I nodded robotically, only to cry out in exasperation when my carefully piled hair unraveled and collapsed in front of my face. The pins clattered onto the floor, and I cringed as I pushed my rope of hair back over my shoulder.

He gazed down at me the entire time, casting a detached, vaguely disconcerting smile in my direction. I couldn't pin it down. In a way it seemed affectionate, paternal even. Yet at the same time I couldn't ignore the impression that there was an undercurrent of perversity in his gaze, darkness hiding behind the cold colors of his eyes. I angled my head away and closed my eyes.

"What are you going to do?" I sounded deceptively calm.

"I was thinking I might take you for a stroll."

"I didn't mean that!" I cried, my eyes flashing open. I shook my head. "Why am I here? What do you want?"

"I explained yesterday."

"You didn't," I muttered. "Or if you did, it didn't make sense. You never make sense."

"Perhaps I would, if you decided to listen."

I started when I felt his hands rest on my shoulders, freezing when I felt his breath on my neck. "I will tell you everything you want to hear, if you listen."

I stood up, hastily stepping away. "Stay away from me!"

He laughed carelessly and matched my steps, fast closing the distance. I was gradually being backed towards my bed, and quickly changed direction. I kept my eyes fixed on his, and was disturbed by his cold, suddenly unsmiling face. I glanced behind me, only to realize that I was a few inches away from the wall. I whipped my head back around to check on Jareth; he was extending a hand.

I ran past him, hardly registering the contact as he grabbed my hair. I kept on running, panicked beyond all rational thought, and shrieked when I was yanked back by my hair. I stumbled, falling onto my knees and supporting my upper body with my hands. I stared down at the carpet, shocked. My scalp throbbed, and I had to bite my lip to keep myself from tears. I felt my plait slip down my back.

"Will you listen to me now?"

I nodded without looking up, and didn't fight him when he took hold of one my wrists and raised me from the ground. He put his fingers under my chin, raising my head so he could see my eyes. "You are here because I desire you to be, that is the truth you seem so desperate for. Isn't it simple?"

I nodded again, petrified.

"Life needn't be so terrible." He stroked one of the many stray strands of my hair back into place, and I hardly know how I was able to bear the cold touch of his fingers. "You should be grateful. That you might need a bed wouldn't have even crossed the Goblins' minds, let alone the necessity of providing silks for your body, combs for your hair. I am your friend." I winced openly, but he didn't appear to see. "I am your benefactor. Is that clear?"

"No." It was a whisper, but I said it.

"What did you say?"

"I said no!" I forced my fingers under his hands to try and lever them away from my waist. "All I need is to go home; that's all I'll ever want. I don't need you. I don't want any of your gifts, your _kindness_ –"

"What about my protection, Sarah? Do you mean to say you would not beg for my protection if left alone in a room with creatures who would happily watch you die?"

"The Goblins are nothing to be frightened of. They're stupid. Let me go!"

He smiled in a very tight, restrained way. "Stupidity does not negate strength. I know several of my densest subjects are very skilled with pickaxes. They practice on the chickens, which is extremely useful for the kitchen staff." He grabbed both of my hands suddenly, gripping both hard. I winced, and his expression softened by the slightest degree and he reduced the severity of his grip. But he didn't let go. "We will go to the garden now. You will like it."

I stood up, and he followed. As we walked towards the door, I murmured, "I don't suppose I have any choice."

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This is one of my strangest memories. I'm not even sure if it happened or not, so don't place much value on it.

The garden he took me to was wonderful. There were mad, strange flowers that would have probably delighted me if I'd been with anyone else. There were blue flowers which rose six feet into the air and pale, pink blossoms that had edible petals, and dense shrubs that growled when you walked too close. Jareth told me all their names, and passed a few casual comments, but said nothing significant.

I saw no other living creature save Jareth while I was outside, and assumed he had arranged for us to be left alone. It wouldn't do for the King to be seen strolling through his gardens with the most wicked traitor in the land, would it now?

The smell of the place was incredible, even overwhelming. It was a collaboration of scents, ranging from subtle perfumes to pervasive stinks. After what must have been at least thirty minutes circling the place, inhaling unfamiliar smells and being faced with strange colors and shapes, I spoke. "Can I sit down?"

He stopped instantly. "Of course." He lowered me down, and I felt alarmed at first for there had been nowhere to sit when I had looked before. I struggled slightly and caught his eyes, but he smiled kindly and continued to lower me down onto a wooden bench. He sat beside me, and placed his hand on my brow. It felt very cold yet, despite all my reservations, soothing. "Are you unwell?"

"I – I, don't know." I felt myself slipping, and felt oddly unconcerned by the way he looked at me. His expression was an odd conflation of emotions: fear and concern, tenderness, lust. I even thought I saw pride as he watched me slip away. He seemed confused, split somehow. I shook convulsively when he started stroking my forehead, shushing me ('Poor, Sarah,' he cooed, 'Poor child') before finally compressing me against his chest.

His embrace was tight, and as he held me I felt as if every desire to remain awake was being pressed from my body. My trembling abated, and my eyes closed.

I think his passion for me must be strongest when I'm asleep; he loves to hold me when I'm helpless.

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When I woke up once more, my room had somehow become more beautiful. I blinked, and noticed colors that hadn't been there before: pinks, blues, and yellows. I recognized some of the prettiest flowers from the garden in vases on various surfaces in the room, and admired the thin threads of leaves and blossoms that had been coiled around the bed-posts. Their scents reached me, and I got up hastily to get some fresh air. I was pleased to find I could walk, even though my legs did wobble slightly. My clothes had changed from those I had worn in the garden; I had been dressed in an elaborate white night-dress that dragged along the floor, it was so long. It was intricately shaped by a complex system of ribbons and bows which I unsuccessfully tried to pick loose.

I sat down on the sill of the window, contemplating the landscape and enjoying the feel of the cold wind that brushed over my face. I wasn't surprised when I heard Jareth's voice. "You are well now?" he asked. He tried to take one of my hands, but I placed both on the sill.

"I don't feel faint anymore, no."

"But you are sad."

I turned my head around sharply to look at him. There was nothing mocking about his expression, and that somehow intensified my anger. "If there were no bars and I had the courage, I'd happily jump out of the window. If I could get out of this room, I'd find a knife and drive it through my heart."

My words were calculated to hurt, yet he smiled at them. His expression was very gentle, even slightly patronizing. "The bars will always be there Sarah, and as long as you speak about such things the door to your room will remain locked."

"But that isn't –" I stopped myself just in time, starting again. "There's nothing for me to do in here. I don't even have anyone to talk to."

"You are too precious, dear, complaining about having no one to talk to while you speak to me."

"I don't mean you," I snapped, offended by the implication that he could provide me with friendship. "I mean true friends. People I care about."

"Whatever friends you had, they have gone."

Somehow, his mention of 'friends' made me realize he was wrong. I had Hoggle and Ludo, and I was appalled by my neglect of them. I'd been so occupied by my own fears, my own pain, to give a thought to theirs. I remembered all the poorly veiled references to Hoggle Jareth had used to taunt me years in the past, cringing openly as my memory dredged up his words. I spoke urgently, "What have you done with them, with my friends?"

He continued to smile, always the same slight, uncommitted smile. He raised himself slightly, and I quickly grabbed his hands to stop him.

"What have you done?"

"You mean to say you care about them? How strange, I haven't heard their names from you in years." He made no move to disentangle our fingers, and looked upon me levelly. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of hope at the thought it was possible to manipulate him, even if it was only in the smallest ways.

"Of course I care! They're the only people I care for here. I love all of them: Hoggle, Ludo and," Jareth smirked as my speech faltered, and I blurted out the final name just in time to stop him making a remark, "And Sir Didymus. I love them all."

"So you do remember. Would you like to see them again?"

"Of course I would."

"You would do anything?"

I eyed him warily. "It depends what you want."

"It is very simple. I do not appreciate your depression, your petty fits of rage. I would like you to smile when you look upon me, to speak brightly when I desire your conversation. I would like you to be polite, gentle."

I shook my head adamantly, glaring at him as I carefully withdrew my hands. "There's got to be more. There's always more with you."

"You are so sharp today, dear. There will indeed be more, yes, but forget that for now. I am not trying to trick you. Be cordial with me, and I will indulge you."

What he proposed somehow seemed too good to be true and too shameful to bear at once. To an extent, I enjoyed hating him. Dramatizing my misery gave me something to do. I liked externalizing the pain, fearing that it would gnaw away at me from the inside if I didn't. The way he worded his proposal made being nice and appreciative seem like the easiest thing, yet I blanched at the thought of using 'please' and 'thank-you' and 'would you mind' in conversation with him. He was monster, demon, and bogeyman all rolled into one, and the thought of being nice to _that _made me feel hollow, soulless, inside.

No; I couldn't let my pride matter more than my friends.

"I'll do it. I'll be as good as I can be, just show them to me."

"But darling, you've forgotten your promise already." He paused but, when I said nothing, continued, "Manners, dear. Remember your manners."

"Please, show me my friends." I spoke in a sweet, simpering voice. It sounded strange on my tongue, and I was alarmed it had come to me so easily.

"Of course." He took hold of one my hands, raising it slightly. He stared at my palm intently, and as we both watched an indistinct, translucent sphere formed. It felt weightless at first, but quickly gained a presence until it felt cold and hard, like glass. There appeared to be a kind of fog trapped inside of it, rising to the top of the sphere only to dip to the bottom. Jareth started chanting quietly using a language I didn't know, and with his words an image began to form.

I gazed it intently, squinting to try and see. The image was vague at first – like a blurry, badly lit photograph – but gradually drew into focus. Although the chamber he was trapped in was dark, I could see Hoggle through the edge of the sphere. He was hunched over with his head sagging in his knees and his body shook slightly, as if he were sobbing. The image dispersed quickly, and I was about to cry out in protest when the picture became faintly red and I made out fine lines of fur through the mist. Ludo was lumbering through an expansive grey courtyard, stones strapped to his back. He staggered along, his mouth gaping in pain. Finally, I saw Sir Didymus. He wore a tight, leather muzzle that muted his chatter and his sight was blocked by a blindfold. He wielded a spear as he ran around his small cell. He was surrounded by chickens, a few of them were carcasses but most were very much alive and scrambled madly around the floor to avoid Didymus's attacks. He didn't seem sad or pained as the others had, and it was his participation in Jareth's cruel games affected me more strongly than his suffering would have done. Just as Didymus drove his spear into a wall, I tipped my hand and let the sphere fall. I followed its fall with my eyes, and flinched at the sudden rush of _cracks_ as it smashed.

"Well, what do you say? Are you happy to have seen them?"

I stood up and drew away, grabbing fistfuls of fabric to lift my nightdress off the floor so I wouldn't trip. I stopped when I reached the dresser, sitting down on the stool and flattening both my hands against the surface. I yearned to destroy everything in the room as I had failed to do before, to rip my pretty gown to tatters to demonstrate my opinion of the Goblin King's hospitality. I had to concentrate all of my energies on keeping still. He made no move to follow me, relegating himself to the status of an observer. "You're mad."

He frowned. "You find promises difficult to keep, don't you Sarah? And you presume to know so much, when you know as little as a child."

"I am not a child, not anymore. I'm eighteen."

"Oh darling, you could be eighty and you would still be a child. An ugly, wizened child, but a child nonetheless."

"You're older than me. Much older than me, I understand," I amended, hurrying my words. "But I don't understand what I'm getting wrong. I thought you wanted me. What do you need my friends for?"

He vanished, and I tensed. There was no point in moving to escape; wherever I went, he'd be able to find me. Even though I knew something like it was going to happen, I couldn't help but cry out when he appeared directly before me. He had crouched down, and was gazing up at my face. He seemed immune to my terror, for he extended his hand towards my cheek and even started to stroke it. "Such a vain creature, such pride. You are an aspect of what I want, certainly, but you are not everything."

His calmness, his soft, regular caresses of my cheek lulled me. My skin went numb to his touch from familiarity, and it was that lack of feeling that gave me the courage to speak.

"Will you please just tell me what you want? Please, I'll be good; just try to help me understand."

His fingers froze. He stood up, glaring at me like I'd said something terrible as he glared down at me from above. "Stop making promises; your deceits tire me. You deserve nothing. Everything you have said today has only made me more certain of your duplicity, your wretchedness." The soothing sense of comfort triggered by his touch had gone, its place filled by desperation.

I stood up, and touched his cheek as he had touched mine. "I mean it this time. Please, all I want is to understand." I leaned forward, closed my eyes and kissed him softly on the lips.

I was half convinced I had made a terrible mistake, and expected him to grab me. But he didn't even try to touch me, his lips were as stone as I kissed them, and his skin was rigid as I stroked it.

I drew back and opened my eyes; he was gone.

I moved over to the bed, sitting down with a thud and bobbing up and down on the mattress as it settled. I felt weirdly isolated, at an utter loss for what to do. Then I turned my head, and saw that a pile of books had been left on my pillow: a dictionary and some old, hard-covered books of children's stories. Best of all, I had been left a plain notebook and a pen.

Seeing the gifts made me appreciate the value the Goblin King placed on kisses. All it took for him to forget intense anger was a false token of my affection. He even gave me presents for it. I think I must know far more about the politics of kissing than he does, because my kisses still hold sway; he isn't quite as immutable as he likes to think.

I quickly put him from my mind, and tore a sheet of paper from the notebook and scribbled a note:

I AM BEING HELD IN THE TOP OF THE LARGEST TOWER IN THE CASTLE.

HELP ME.

S.

That was the first of many appeals for help. I tried to imaginative about how I distributed them, pushing the first few through the bars of the window and watching them spin down to the ground. The first few were disappointing, sinking into the wide pools of dark, festering water that were spread across the courtyard. Even though the courtyard was packed with Goblins, there wasn't a sign that my messages had been noticed.

Next, I tried paper airplanes. I carried out test flights across the room, and the first three trips ended in mangled pieces of paper. After hours of trying, I finally made one that was perfect. I carefully flattened out its wing, writing my note before refolding until it was perfect again. I took it to the window, and managed to compress it just enough to squeeze it through the bars without crippling its wings. It was difficult to move my wrist while it was caught between the two rods of metal, but I did as I best as I could and managed to propel the plane into the air. It caught the wind and glided forward, bypassing the courtyard altogether and clearing the outer walls of the castle. I smiled as it went out of sight. Even though my friends were trapped, I had to hope there was someone left in the Labyrinth who would help me.

I assembled a few more planes with less success, launching a few abortive flights and even slipping a few notes directly underneath my door when I was at a loss for what to do with them. I stopped when I realized that there weren't many pages of the notebook left, and put it away so I could use it again another time.

I passed the rest of the evening reading the books he had left for me, but fell asleep half way through _Sara Crewe_. It was a strange book and reminded me of something I had read when I was small, although I could not remember what.

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was that papers, all creased and muddied beyond recognition, were spread over my pillow. The smell of rotting paper filled my nostrils, and my face crumpled up in disgust. I sat up and looked straight ahead, squinting at the bright sunlight that shone through the window.

When my eyes adjusted, I saw that Jareth was stood in front of me, his features bleached by the sun. He smiled widely, and held up my paper plane for me to see; it was slightly battered, but intact. I flinched when he ripped it, the sound of tearing paper dreadful to hear. "You need to be more subtle. Everyone here keeps watch on my behalf; there is not a creature in my Kingdom capable of defying me."

"Apart from me."

He smiled and squeezed his fist. I winced as I heard paper crunch. "You may desire to disobey me, but you are not capable of it, not truly." He let the paper drop from his hand, and began to move towards me. I tried to draw away, shuffling across the bed, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards him. I was startled by his violence, and stared as he took hold of my hand and pressed it hard against his cheek. "You can say no and you can struggle, but you are frail. I can make you submit to my will."

He increased the pressure above my hand, and I winced. "You're hurting me," I whined, too afraid to struggle.

"I mean to. I ask for your obedience time and time again, and you continually defy me." He scraped my hand over his cheek, a twisted reference to the gesture I had treated him to the previous day.

I glared at him. "_I_ mean to," I spat, tossing his words back at him.

"Do you want me to take your gifts away? Would you like to watch as I rip every page from your books?"

I balked inwardly at the thought of losing them so quickly after receiving them, but hid my fear. He was too close to me and I was acutely aware that he would note the slightest waver in my expression. I kept gazing into his eyes, and spoke. "They're not my things, they're yours and you can do whatever you want with them. I don't care."

"Oh, but I think you do. Can you imagine the prospect of weeks alone without them?"

I could imagine it far too well.

"You might say you will, but you're not going to leave me alone." I smiled bitterly. "You enjoy tormenting me too much."

He drew my hand away from his face, squeezing it hard before he dropped it. I pulled it straight into my lap, covering it with my other hand. He didn't move from the bed, and I inched away from him as carefully as I could. I don't know why I bothered to be careful; his eyes tracked every movement I made and he could have stopped me on a whim. "I want to get dressed."

"Very well," he stood up and moved to the door. Just as I thought he was going to leave without another word, he turned around and smiled. "I just thought you should know that I am on my way to see your friends. Is there anything you would like me to pass on?"

My skin went cold. I hastily got up from the bed and chased him to the door. "Don't hurt them anymore, please! You mustn't hurt them!" I grabbed hold of his arm, trying to force him to stay. He smiled as he pried my fingers away, capturing my hand and squeezing. He'd snatched hold of my hand many times before, but this time was different; he didn't let go. My fingers went bone white and crooked in the middle, and I gritted my teeth to suppress a shriek.

"Stop, please! You're breaking them – they're breaking!" Finally, my fingers went numb, the pain cold. He dropped my hand. Tears filled my eyes, and I looked at him in an attempt to make him feel some sort of pity or remorse. Instead he didn't seem to see me at all; he smiled straight through me, it was as if all the pain contained in my face was invisible.

"You say such strange things. Never fear, I will be sure to let them know exactly what you have said." He dropped his head, kissing me on the parting of my hair while I shook from the severity of my sobs. He vanished, and I returned to the bed, clutching my hands together fearfully.

I whimpered at the thought of losing my hands. I couldn't bear the idea of not being able to pick up things I wanted, not being able to fight those who wanted to hurt me. Even though my fingers weren't broken and I could move them again so after, the fear of helplessness remained. If he was willing to break my fingers, what else would he harm? Would he cripple my legs? Break my neck?

No, he wouldn't want me if I were a cripple. He liked my little displays of violence too much for that.

I looked around the room, taking in its perfection. All of the flowers were still bright and in bloom, still and passively beautiful. It was the room of a contended, disciplined person

When I checked the drawer where I had hidden all of my 'gifts,' I found that Jareth had taken my notebook, but left me my story-books and dictionary.

That night, I started reading the dictionary. It felt like a brick on my lap, and the pages were brittle, yellowed and stank of damp. I can hardly remember a single definition from it now, despite studying every page.

Isn't that strange?

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**A.N: Okay miraculously speedy update here kids. I hope you enjoyed it, as much as you can enjoy angst anyway.**

**I will try to make the next chapter less insular, as I don't particularly want to perpetuate the notion that I enjoy subjecting my characters to horrible anguish.**

**Please review, the more reviews I get the more I'll be compelled to update again quickly!**

**Also, for this chapter and the last (and indeed, for this entire story) I would like to acknowledge the kind help of my beta NiennaTelrunya, who's information on the mysteries of the American language and culture never fails to help me.  
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